


The Great Pretender

by campsearchlight



Category: Fallout - Fandom, Fallout 4
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Espionage, F/M, Fake Marriage, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-09-12
Updated: 2019-04-22
Packaged: 2019-07-11 11:46:35
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 12
Words: 30,979
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15971672
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/campsearchlight/pseuds/campsearchlight
Summary: Waking up from a 200-year cryosleep provides a great opportunity to recreate yourself.





	1. Awful, Awful Things

**Author's Note:**

> This is kind of a repost of a work I had up before. I decided to change a bunch, so I thought I’d just start it all over. Enjoy!

She was aware of the cold. It had settled into her flesh, froze her bones—when? A few minutes ago, she thought. The Vault-Tec staffer had said it would only take a minute. But, was it supposed to be that cold?

Her body began to quiver as the lid of the decontamination pod lifted. Instead of stepping out like she thought she would, she tilted forward and fell out of the pod, her numb hands and knees barely registering the pain when they connected with the concrete floor. 

She looked up, her vision fuzzy. She blinked rapidly to try to clear it, but all she could see was a swirl of gray. 

“Hello?” Her voice came out a hoarse whisper. Trying again, louder, she said, “Is anyone there?”

Her answer was a reverberation of her question. 

Tentatively, she rose to her feet. She was able to take a few steps, only to collapse against the pod across from hers. She was too short to see into the window without getting on her toes. Attempting this, her knees knocked together, and she almost fell again.

She pushed herself up, her calf muscles straining. 

The plexiglass window, the edges of it crystallized with ice, held the image of her husband, seemingly asleep. Next to the pod was a red button that could only be meant to open the pod. She punched it with the flat side of her fist, and the pod hissed as the seal was broken. She took a shaky step backward, her stance wide and her arms out to balance herself.

When the pod stood all the way open, she stepped up to it again, bracing her hand at the edges. Her hand reached out, touched his face. The bit of warmth that had returned to her fingertips was sapped away. 

They had been lied to—this much was obvious. They had not been shepherded into decontamination pods; they were stuffed into cryogenic pods. For how long, she didn’t know. She didn’t even want to guess. 

Her fear was so great in the moment that she couldn’t see through the lie.

“Wake up,” she said. She tapped his cheek. “Nate, please.” When there was no response, her hand slid down to his neck to search for a pulse. 

There was nothing there, except cold, hard skin. She tamped down her rising panic with a few deep breaths. How long would it take for him to thaw? She decided to give him some time. 

With an enormous amount of effort, she pushed herself upright. “I’ll be right back.”

On unsteady legs, she made her way around the chamber. None of the other pods would open, though; a tinny voice would announce, “Life support malfunctioning. Access denied. Overseer approval required.” 

She swallowed hard and went back to Nate, who didn’t look much different. The light frost in his salt-and-pepper hair was melting. She felt for a pulse again. 

Nothing. 

Her hand trembled—though not from the cold—as she drew it back. She closed his pod, and the water in his hair froze almost immediately.

* * *

She rose from the Vault a blank slate. The sunlight blinded her, and she raised a hand to shield her eyes. When her eyes adjusted, realization hit her like a sledgehammer. 

Nate was dead, his son was gone—and the world as she knew it was destroyed. 

At the edge of the Vault's elevator platform, she stared out over the bleak wasteland, shaking all over, wracking her brain for a goal. 

_Start small_ , she told herself. And she did. She went the way she came, down the hill to Sanctuary Hills—however long ago that was. She shuddered as she stepped carefully over the pile of bones at the gate midway down the hill. 

She crossed the rickety footbridge and stopped once her feet hit solid ground again. The homes of her neighborhood had seen better days. Some of the siding had fallen away on most of the buildings. Brownish ivy crawled up the walls, seeking out gaps. The Homeowners' Association would have a fit if they saw the state of all the lawns; the grasses and flowers—dead as dead can get.

She continued on, aiming for the place she felt she should start. When her house came into view, she let out a breath she realized she'd been holding. She had had the thought that her house would have been blown to smithereens. Luckily, it was standing—and in much better condition than all the others. All the walls were mostly intact, even _clean_. The lawn and hedges—though dreadfully brown—were neatly clipped. The white picket fence was also clean and still standing perfectly upright. The mailbox at the end of the driveway was still painted the bright white she and Nate had chosen together, their last name scrawled on the side in her neat script. 

She could cry, and she did when she saw their faithful Mr. Handy, Codsworth, come floating out the front door. 

"C-Codsworth?" she stuttered, tears finally spilling over. It couldn’t be him. It would be impossible. 

The robot's camera-lens eyes narrowed to focus on her, and then they widened. "Mum? Is that you?"

"It's me," she confirmed, sinking to her knees next to the mailbox. She buried her face in her hands and let go of the tears she had been holding in. 

Codsworth inched closer, one of his three arms outstretched as if to console her, but he stopped a yard away. "Miss—?"

"I—I just need a... minute," she gasped out between sobs. 

He backed away another yard and waited for her to finish. 

She drew in deep, calming breaths until she felt strong enough to stand. Once she was on her feet again, she attempted a confident stride up the walkway. Codsworth moved out of her way and then followed her inside. 

It was just how they left it, even the coffee mug she left on the counter in the kitchen. When she inspected it, she found it clean. She braced her hands against the countertop, her head hanging between her shoulders. 

"Mum?" Codsworth said again, worry in his tone. 

She inhaled deeply before turning to face him. "Yes?"

"Are you... alright?"

She nodded, then bit her lip. "How did you manage to keep everything so perfect?"

"It wasn't easy, but it kept me busy while I waited for you, Mister Nate, and Shaun to return," he replied. "Speaking of the sirs, are they with you?"

"N-no. They're gone."

"Gone?"

"They’re just gone, Codsworth.”

Codsworth didn’t respond right away. He just stared at her for a long moment before saying, "My goodness, that can't be true."

"It is."

"Oh, dear... Have a seat, mum. I'll make you some coffee."

She waved a hand. "That's okay. I don't want any. I just... Is our bedroom...?"

"Just as you left it."

She walked on leaden legs down the short hallway, passing the nearly-pristine bathroom and laundry room. She forced herself not to look into Shaun's bedroom; there was no use in hurting herself like that right now. She wanted to sleep. When she woke, she would figure out another goal. 

The humming of Codsworth's machinery followed her to the master bedroom. "Is there a particular time you'd like me to wake you?"

"No," she said, surveying the room. It was also the same as they left it. She kicked off her boots, pulled back the blanket, and climbed into bed. "But, I'd like some coffee when I get up."

"Of course. Sweet dreams, mum." Codsworth retreated into the hallway, pulling the door shut behind him.

She reached for her pillow and pulled it to her chest, closing her eyes against the soft material. It smelled like their usual laundry detergent, and she briefly wondered how much trouble it actually was for Codsworth to keep everything clean and orderly. However he managed it, she was grateful he did.

* * *

She sat at the dining table, idly turning the dials on the Pip-Boy she plucked from a skeleton back in the Vault. She stared at Codsworth as he went about dusting the living room. He passed his feather duster over the shelves by the front door, and her eyes drift over the diplomas, certificates, Nate’s military awards, and various knickknacks.

"Codsworth?" she said. 

"Yes, mum?" 

"Can you tell me anything about what's out there?" 

"Awful, _awful_ things. You'll likely need a weapon."

She blinked at his bluntness. "Is Nate's gun still in the safe?”

"Yes, mum. Do you remember the combination?"

"Yeah, it's only been—" She cut herself off. "How long _has_ it been?"

"You and the sirs have been gone for just over two hundred years."

She inhaled sharply, her hands clamping around the edge of the table. "T-two hundred...?"

"Give or take a decade, yes. Are you unwell? You look positively pale."

"I—I—" She screwed her eyes shut, then shoved herself away from the table. "I have to find other people." On her feet, she opened her eyes to go back to the bedroom. The nightstand on Nate's side of the bed held the safe, which held his ten-millimeter pistol. She opened the cabinet, put in the combination on the safe— _5575_ , their anniversary—and pulled out the pistol. It was in mint condition, but she was not surprised. She took the box of ammunition and the holster as well and loaded the rounds into the magazine, just as the United States Army had taught her. Clicking the magazine back into place, she leaned her back against the side of the bed. 

_You know how to shoot. They made sure you could_ , she reminded herself. 

Codsworth appeared in the doorway. "Mum, there's something I should give you before you leave."

She looked up at him. "What is it?"

One of his arms extended, holding a holotape. "It's from Mister Nate."

She looked at the holotape, debating on whether or not she wanted to hurt herself _this_ way. She took the holotape and tucked it into the holotape slot in her Pip-Boy. She would listen to it later. "Thank you."

"You're welcome. Now, I know exactly where you can start your search."

"You do? Where?"

"Concord. There is a group of people there that may be pleasant enough to hold a conversation."

"Great. Thank you." 

"Shall I accompany you, mum?" 

She hauled herself to her feet and went to the closet. "No, you should probably stay and keep an eye on things here." She unzipped her Vault suit and pulled on a comfortable pair of jeans, a loose T-shirt, and a windbreaker. She found her old backpack from her schooldays in the back corner, deciding it would come in handy should she find any supplies. 

"If you're sure."

"I am. I'll come back before sunset."

"I eagerly await your return."

She gave him a smile, and then she set out for Concord. 

She had an eerie feeling as she headed for the bridge over the river that surrounded the neighborhood. It felt like something was watching her. Glancing around and seeing nothing, she brushed it off as nerves; it was a new world, and she was bound to get weird feelings walking through it. Besides, it was probably just some wild animal keeping its distance. 

She came to the Red Rocket Truck Stop, where she had just been hired as a full-time mechanic. She had been ecstatic—finally, she was free from her contract from the military.

She stopped when she saw a dog lying down in the shade of the overhang where the fuel pumps used to be. 

The dog lifted his head to look at her, his ears pricked. 

Her hand hovered near the holstered pistol on her left hip as a precaution. "Hey, boy."

The dog's tail thumped over and over against the ground. He seemed friendly enough. A feral dog would have already attacked.

She moved a bit closer and searched the thick fur around his neck for a collar but found none. "Do you belong to someone?"

His tail stopped wagging. 

"Guess that's a 'no.'" She crouched a few yards away, holding her hand out to him. 

He cocked his head before he got to his feet. He sniffed her palm, and then he allowed her to pet the top of his head, his tail wagging again. 

"Good boy," she murmured, scratching behind his ear. "Wanna come with me?" She straightened, pat the side of her thigh, and started walking toward Concord again. She glanced back to see him following her—unsurely at first, and then he darted in front of her to scout ahead. 

The houses lining the main road loomed ominously overhead, most of their windows and doors boarded over. She had just passed through here on her way to the Super Duper Mart in Lexington. It felt like it had only been a couple of days. 

She tried to ignore that feeling, tried to tell herself she belonged here, no matter how disorienting this new reality is. 

Ankle-deep in Concord, she heard the unmistakable sound of gunfire. Her hand pulled out the pistol before she realized it. Ahead, the dog's limbs bent, his hackles rising. He growled, low and threatening. 

Popping her head around a corner, she saw people loitering in front of the Museum of Freedom, dressed in mismatched clothing with spiky armor pieces on shoulders, elbows, and knees. These couldn’t be the people Codsworth told her about. They looked too much like trouble. 

Then, one of them spotted her. They started yelling and scattered. Some of them wildly fired their guns, and a bullet pinged off the brick of the storefront to her left. She pulled her face behind the corner again, her grip tightening on Nate's pistol. 

_It's just like the shooting range_ , she told herself. _They're targets, not people_.

She wouldn’t forget those screams, though. 

When the loiterers had been eliminated, a door opened on the museum's balcony. A man in a cowboy hat waved down at her. "Hey! How are you?"

She blinked up at him, taken aback by the nicety. Codsworth was right after all. "Um, I'm okay. How about you?"

"Could be better, honestly. We've got a few more raiders in here that we could use some help getting rid of. I mean, if you wouldn't mind—"

Despite the clawing desperation of wanting to run like hell back home, she started for the museum's front door. "On it!" 

Inside, she was greeted with more gunfire. She and the dog took cover behind a tipped-over desk, gave herself a moment to remember the positions of the raiders, and then she started to clear them out. With the main room free of raiders, they weaved through back rooms, making sure every threat had been dispatched, before heading up to meet the man from the balcony. 

He met them in the hallway, his hand out to shake hers. "I'm so glad you came by. We've been stuck here for days. Preston Garvey."

"Nice to meet you," she said, giving his sweaty hand a firm shake. She realized a moment later that she didn’t tell him her name, but the moment passed without a question. "How many others are with you?" 

"Just four. We had eight a few days ago, but the raiders..." He sighed dejectedly. He broke her gaze for a moment, then said, "Anyway, thank you. But, I'm afraid it's not over yet."

"What do you mean?"

"Where there are some raiders, more are sure to come." He gestured to the room behind him. "Come meet the others, and we'll discuss some strategy—" He stopped, looking embarrassed. "Gee, I'm sorry. I just assumed you'd stay to help. If you don't want to—"

"It's okay. I've got your back," she said with a reassuring nod—though she questioned how, in so grim a situation, anything could be reassuring.

"I appreciate that, ma'am." He swept his arm toward the room, and she stepped further inside. A broad-shouldered man stood close to the door and smiled at her when he saw her. An old woman sat in a chair by the window, clothed in a blue coat and a brown scarf around her neck; a man and woman bickered quietly in the corner, their hushed voices almost amplified in the room.

"Everyone, listen up," Preston said. "This woman just saved us from the raiders.”

The occupants of the room murmured their thanks. 

“Ma’am,” Preston said, “this is Sturges"—the smiling man—"Mama Murphy"—the old woman—"and Marcy and Jun"—the bickering couple. 

"Nice to meet you all," she said with a wave. "Everyone holding up okay?"

The couple simply looked at her, but Mama Murphy smiled, revealing yellowed teeth. 

"Good as can be, sweetheart," Mama Murphy said in a glaringly Bostonian accent.

"So, the raiders," she said, turning back to Preston.

He looked to Sturges. "You'll probably be able to explain it a little better than I could."

"Alright," Sturges said, "there's an old suit of power armor up on the roof, as well as a crashed vertibird. What you'll have to do is grab the fusion core from the basement—it's locked up, and I couldn't pick the lock—and bring it up to the suit. Once you're in there, you can rip the mini-gun right off the side of the veritibird, and you'll be unstoppable."

A thrill ran through her. If there was one thing left in the world that she loved, it was power armor. "Sounds easy enough."

"I can come with you if you'd like," Sturges said. "Up until the part where you take out a legion of raiders."

"That's okay. I'm sure I can figure it out. Stay safe, though."

"We will," Preston said. "I hope you do, too." 

As she began her march through the room, Mama Murphy grasped her forearm. She stopped and looked down at the older woman. 

“Take Dogmeat with you.”

She glanced at the dog at her side, then back at Mama Murphy. “Is he yours?”

“Dogmeat’s his own man, but he looks out for his friends.”

“It’s not safe out there, though, and I’d hate for him to get hurt. Would you look after him for me?”

Mama Murphy leaned back in her seat. “If he’ll let me, sure.”

She looked down at Dogmeat and said, “Stay here, boy. It’s too dangerous.”

Dogmeat sat obediently at Mama Murphy’s side, and she continued on her way.

* * *

She loaded the fusion core—after having found a fire extinguisher to smash the knob off the locked room that contained the core—into the suit of power armor. Stepping into the suit, she felt heavy and unbreakable. But this was not her first time; she had been inside her fair share of them as an army-contracted mechanic, in order to make sure everything worked properly before sending them out. It was, however, the first time she would be wearing it for its intended purpose. 

She jerked the mini-gun from the vertibird, and, shielded with a thick layer of metal and a gun that could rip through brick wall, she felt almost godlike. 

On the ground below, more raiders littered the street. She got a good grip on the mini-gun, took in a deep breath, and thanked herself for leaving Dogmeat behind. 

Her godly feeling enhanced when she stepped off the side of the roof and plummeted three stories, landing unharmed on her heavily-armored feet. 

All it took was a finger pulling on the trigger and sweeping the weapon slowly back and forth, and the raiders were taken care of. However, when she turned back to the museum, a hair-raising roar stopped her in her tracks. 

She was intensely afraid to turn around, but her stupidity instinct kicked in and told her to anyway. She was not prepared for what she saw: a monster, plain and simple. Down the street, a giant, hulking beast with curled horns framing its lizard-like face rose out of a torn-open sewer grate. Long arms with long talons to match. Hysterically, the word _dinosaur_ crossed her mind. 

She looked at the beast for approximately three seconds before she laid on the trigger again, her feet automatically carrying her back. Inside the suit, she hyperventilated, her eyes blown wide open.

The monster howled in pain at the rain of bullets—but it still advanced. 

Her back hit something solid—the museum. In the moment before the monster got to her, she considered running for the door. Before she could even decide, it was there, a great hand pulling back and swiping at her. 

The foot-long claws caught on the mini-gun and sent it flying a few yards away, which tore a gasp from her throat. She was absolutely dead.

"Oh, shit!" Preston yelled above her. "Sturges, my musket!"

The monster's hand pulled back again. 

She was frozen in fear.

A flash of red light struck the monster right in the center of its scaly forehead, stunning it momentarily. 

Her body reacted before her brain did, taking the opportunity to make a mad dash for her gun. She snatched it from the ground as she passed its resting place and whirled around, still moving, to pull the trigger again. More red flashes came from the balcony, hitting the monster over and over. Its skin sizzled and steamed from the heat, its arms swinging wildly. 

She pummeled the thing with bullets. A final hit from Preston's weapon finished it off. It fell to the ground with a ground-shaking thud.

Out of shock, the mini-gun stayed in her clenched fingers. _What the fuck was that? What_ was _that?_

Preston called down to her, "Miss? Are you okay?"

She looked up at him. "I'm alive!"

He laughed. "Glad to hear it. Come in and sit for a minute, yeah? We'll meet you in the entrance." He disappeared back inside.

She looked back to the monster’s bulky form. She hadn't known what to expect when Codsworth said _awful, awful things_ , but this? It was almost too much to handle. 

She took in a deep breath and headed into the museum.


	2. Destiny Calling

She began anew. 

In the two months since she left the Vault, one of the first things she did was make a makeshift room for herself at the Red Rocket. She didn’t want to go back home, lest she relive memories she didn’t want to, and she didn’t want to stay in one of her neighbors’ homes, either. The idea of staying there without permission sat uncomfortably with her, even if they were all dead. 

She cleaned out the back office, tossing out the old terminal for which she wouldn’t have any use and sweeping dirt and debris outside. Codsworth helped her drag in a bed from Concord; she hadn’t known anyone there. The bed was so wide, she could barely stand next to it without pressing herself against the wall. But she liked the coziness of it. 

Her old neighborhood had become a new home to Preston and his found family. When questioned about the well-kept home and the Mr. Handy, she simply said finding them was a surreal experience after having never really seen anything so well-kept. When Preston asked her if she wanted the house, she politely refused, stating that she felt more at home in a garage. She insisted upon keeping Codsworth, though. They agreed easily, since she had found him first. 

Sanctuary seemed to be doing well. They even had a few new settlers who helped them tend the meager crops they had growing in her backyard. She would visit every few days or so and help with the garden, but her true love lie with the T-51 power armor she had acquired that very first day. It took some time and the help of some wandering traders, but she was able to procure a power armor frame to cradle the armor as she worked on it. 

Sometime between then and now, she took off her wedding ring and hid it under a loose tile in her bedroom. 

Even after so much time, no one asked her her name. Whenever she was around, the settlers simply referred to her as _miss_ or _ma’am_. She didn’t know most of their names, either, so she didn’t mind. The ones she found in Concord seemed to just be respecting her privacy, for which she was grateful. 

For a while, she was somehow happy. 

Until tonight, however. 

She was lying in bed and reading an old _Grognak the Barbarian_ comic, her feet propped on Dogmeat’s sleeping form, when his head raised suddenly. She looked at him for a moment, until Codsworth hovered into the threshold of her room. 

“Mum, you have a guest,” he announced. His rotund hull—repaired nearly-new by her own hands—gleamed in the dull lantern light on the desk across the narrow room. 

“Oh? Is it Preston? Tell him I’ll be by in the morning to help scavenge in Concord.”

“It isn’t Preston, mum.”

Her heartbeat sped up. She reached for the pistol resting on the bedside table. “Who is it, Codsworth?”

“I asked him who he was—as I didn’t recognize him from Sanctuary—and he simply said, ‘Destiny calling.’”

Her head drew back. “What?”

“I haven’t the foggiest, mum. Would you like me to ask him to leave?”

“Uh, no. No, it’s okay. I’ll see him.” She got out of bed with Dogmeat jumping down and trotting to move ahead of her. Holding the gun steadily in front of her with both hands, she followed her companions to the garage, where the visitor was waiting. 

His back—which had a sniper rifle strapped across it—was to her as he inspected her power armor. Her nerves lit up like a Christmas tree at his close proximity to it; if he were to hop in, he could kill her with ease. She would chastise Codsworth later about letting the stranger inside her garage, if she was alive enough to do so. 

He turned at the low roar of Codsworth’s thruster. Despite the late hour, his eyes were obscured by sunglasses. 

She halted in the doorway to the front room and pointed the muzzle of the gun at his chest. “Destiny, I presume?”

His face split into a wide grin that could be charming, if he wasn’t some random man in her garage. “It’s your lucky day. Can you believe it?”

“What do you want?”

“Well, first, I’d like for you to put down the gun.”

“Not happening.”

He held up his hands in acquiescence. “Sure, sure.”

“I’m going to ask one more time before I shoot you,” she said, adjusting her grip. “What do you want?”

He glanced around, though there wasn’t much else to look at besides her various workbenches and toolboxes. “Maybe we could find a more comfortable place to chat.”

“I’m fine here.” But, she aimed the pistol at his knee instead. 

“Time to get down to business, then. My first question is: Do you know about the Railroad?”

The name was familiar, even without harkening back to what she learned about slavery in school. These days, the concept was largely the same: the Railroad ushered to safety synthetic humans escaped from the boogeyman of the Commonwealth, a place called the Institute. On her singular trip to Diamond City—the former Fenway Park—one month out of the Vault, she had overheard murmured conversations of the patrons at the noodle stand there. They were afraid of their families being replaced by synthetic copies. Why the Institute would do this and not use their seemingly advanced technology to help the Commonwealth instead of hurt them—she couldn’t guess.

“I’ve heard of it,” she replied. 

“Then, we’re already a few steps in the right direction.” He flashed another smile at her, but it was gone in an instant. “You’re not going to like what I say next, so I’d _really_ appreciate it if you didn’t shoot off my kneecap.”

The finger she had aligned along the barrel gave a twitch. “We’ll see.”

He cleared his throat. “I’ve sort of been keeping tabs on you for a while, but, after careful consideration, I think you’ve got what it takes to be an agent of the Railroad. So, congratulations!”

She swung the pistol level with his head, her heart setting off at a gallop in her throat. “You’ve been _following_ me?”

He threw his hands up in a placating gesture. “Not exactly. I have contacts. They let me in on what’s going on around the ‘Wealth. And, well, a couple months back, they mentioned seeing someone wandering around the neighborhood up the road—someone besides the usual Mr. Handy they’ve seen there.” He gestured at Codsworth. “Which I’m guessing is this fine gentleman here.”

Codsworth gave a harrumph of displeasure, possibly at the thought of being watched without knowing. 

“And? That’s all it takes—having a pulse?” she questioned. 

“A pulse is preferable, yeah. But not just that.” He took a step closer to her, earning a renewed sharpness to her aim. “My contact said you saved some people in Concord from raiders—not to mention the _Deathclaw_ —when you could’ve easily _not_. So, not just a pulse, but a moral compass that points to ‘good and decent.’”

Her blood runs cold at the mention of the horrible creature she faced. “Anybody would’ve helped them. I just got there first.” 

“Not just anybody. Only someone good. And, y’know... decent.”

She stared at him, not really knowing what to say. How bizarre—and unexpectedly irritating—it was that this man she didn’t know stood in _her_ garage and told her her worth. “So, what? You want me to join up with the Railroad? Do they usually stalk potential recruits?”

“Again: _I_ didn’t stalk you. Personally.”

She scoffed. As if there were a difference. “You know, you have some nerve coming into my house and telling me about myself when I don’t even know who you are.”

“Huh. Where are my manners?” He took another step forward and held out his right hand. “Deacon.”

She looked at his hand, then back at his face. “Still don’t know you.”

He chuckled and took back his hand to run it over his hair. If she weren’t paying such close attention to him, she wouldn’t have noticed that his hairline shifted infinitesimally—or that his ginger eyebrows didn’t quite match the blackness of his hair. “Fair point. I didn’t mean to offend. I only meant that, well, the Railroad could use someone who would...” His voice trailed off, and then he snorted. “Someone who would lay down their life for their fellows, even if that person was a synth.”

She hesitated before asking, “Synths are people, then?”

“They have free will,” he said. “That’s enough for me.”

“And what would I get out of this?”

“A warm, fuzzy feeling from helping people in need?”

She scoffed. “Anything else?”

“Since we travel a lot—plenty of chances to scavenge some goodies. And something tells me you like to scavenge.” He stuck a thumb over his shoulder at her power armor. 

Her mouth pursed. She _did_ need to cobble together replacement circuitry and plating for her armor before she would be willing to take it out more often. “You’ll understand if I need time to think about this.”

“Of course, of course,” he said, nodding. “Wouldn’t want you to make any hasty decisions. But, I’ll leave you with this.” He braved one more stop forward. They were only about three feet apart now—and she lowered her gun. “I’ll give you a week to meet me in Diamond City. It’s—you know where that is?”

She nodded once. 

“I’ll hold a room for you at the Dugout Inn.” He held out his hand once again. “What name should I put it under?”

She thought for a moment, shifting her pistol to her left hand. “Deacon, right?” After an approving nod from him, she clasped his hand—just as calloused as hers—and shook it firmly. “Bishop.”

“Bishop,” he repeated, grinning as he realized what she had done. He hadn’t let go of her hand, and she was beginning to grow even more uncomfortable than she already was. “Excellent choice. I look forward to meeting you again.”

“We’ll see.” She pulled back her hand. “Codsworth, would you see Deacon out, please?”

“Of course, mum,” the Mr. Handy said. “This way, sir.” He held out a spindly metal limb to lead Deacon out through the front room. 

Deacon gave a final, parting nod to her as he passed. “Stay safe out there, Bish.”

The faux familiarity made her cheek twitch. So, she responded, “You, too, _Deac_.”

Codsworth returned a few moments later. “That was certainly interesting.”

“Yeah, uh, about that... Please don’t let strangers into my garage. Maybe receive them in the front room, huh?”

“My apologies, mum! I hadn’t thought it might upset you.”

“I’m not upset, but...” Her gaze drifted to her power armor. “Who knows how many suits are out there? If the wrong person saw this... Well, shit. I don’t even want to think about it.”

“Certainly, mum. Your message has been received and filed away for the future.”

“Thank you.”

“Shall I refer to you as Miss Bishop now?”

She hesitated, but then nodded. “Yes. Please.”

“Very well. Will you be requiring anything else this evening?”

“That’ll be all.” She began the short walk back to her room. “Have a good night.”

“You as well, mum.”

She lay back down, where Dogmeat took up his previous position underneath her feet. She grabbed the comic off the nightstand, replacing it with her gun. She flicked through the pages without reading them. 

The man who called himself Deacon was, at the very least, an outrageous curiosity in this world that was already curious. Finding out that he had stalked her vicariously had set off a round of alarm bells that hadn’t yet quieted. She found it difficult to move past that, so she tried to think about his offer instead. 

In Concord, she had acted first, thought after. She saw people in need, and she helped them. In her life before, she didn’t think she could have been capable of hurting anyone, even as the army taught her to handle a gun. But, the nature of the Commonwealth of Massachusetts had drastically changed. To survive, she had to defend herself. If that meant killing, so be it. 

When she finally focused, she spoiled the ending for herself by looking over one of the last pages to see where she was. With a muted groan, she tossed the comic to the ratty rug spread beneath her bed and rolled onto her side. 

He’d said she had a week to decide. Somehow, she knew they would accept her even if it took her longer than that.

* * *

It was three days before she was forced to actually consider Deacon’s proposition. 

She tinkered with a television set in an empty house in Concord, attempting to pry out the precious copper wiring. It wasn’t anywhere near enough of what she would need for her armor, but it was a start. When one slightly-oxidized wire snapped in the gentle grasp of her needle-nose pliers, she sat back on her heels for a moment, glaring at the two pieces. 

The bastard was right; she weirdly enjoyed scavenging useful pieces of the past. She could only imagine what she would find further into the Commonwealth. 

With a firm resolve, she stood, brushed the dirt and leaves off her knees, and marched back to the Red Rocket to pack.


	3. For the Noodles

After promising Codsworth she would return, Bishop—she needed to get used to that—and Dogmeat traveled to Diamond City the way they had gone before: south-ish, then across the Charles River. She wondered briefly if anyone knew the river’s name anymore, then decided it hardly mattered in a world where she could be afraid that someone would kill her for the centuries-old, irradiated can of Cram in her backpack.

The walk was made easier by the crisp chill in the air. They passed by sagging buildings, heaps of rubble, and—closer to the core of Boston—hordes of raiders and big, scary, green people referred to as super mutants. Thanks to Dogmeat’s incredible perception, she was able to avoid most of them. The only scuffle she ran into was as the sun was setting. She ran into a band of raiders right around the corner from the entrance to Diamond City, but the nearby guards came running, guns blazing and baseball bats swinging. In the brief pauses between gunfire and hideous cracks, she admired their bravery and willingness to help in a fight in which they weren’t involved. 

When the fight was over, she tucked her pistol into its holster and leaned against a brick wall to catch her breath. She wasn’t sure how long it would take to get used to run-ins like that, but she hoped it would happen soon.

The guards went to inspect the bodies. Except for one, who walked briskly toward her. 

“Hey, you!” He wore the standard padding that of a baseball catcher, accompanied by sunglasses. A nearby streetlight bounced light off his smooth scalp. 

She pushed away from the wall, her hands in the air. “No trouble here, officer.”

“You’re damn right there won’t be any trouble,” he said, his voice gruff. 

A man rushing toward her gave her the urge to run, but she refrained, only because she didn’t want to end up with a bullet in her back.

He stopped a few feet in front of her. “As long as you’re here to see me.”

Dogmeat’s posture straightened. His tail thumped against Bishop’s thigh. 

_Is that...?_ It took a second to picture a black pompadour and road leathers. “No, actually. I came for the noodles.”

“Ah,” Deacon said, brushing his hands down the sides of the padding that was part of the guard uniform. "They come for the noodles, yes—but they stay for the me.”

“The ‘you.’ Right.” Bishop rolled her eyes to hide her amusement. “So, I’m here. What’s next?”

“Wanna get a drink?”

She stared at him. “Didn’t I just say what I came here for?”

He chuckled. “How about we talk over some noodles?”

She gestured for him to lead the way. 

“One sec.” He ducked into a nearby alleyway. 

Bishop and Dogmeat shared a look and waited for him. 

A minute passed, and Deacon returned. His black pompadour wig was firmly in place upon his head, as were his sunglasses. Instead of the guard uniform, he wore a mostly-white T-shirt, blue jeans rolled up just above the ankle, and light blue high-top sneakers. 

“Uh.” She looked over his outfit again. She wondered how he changed so quickly—and also where the guard uniform went, because it sure as hell didn’t go into his stuffed backpack. “Do you do that a lot?”

“Occasionally. Shall we?” 

She started past him, causing him to take a few quick steps to catch up. 

“Have you ever been to the city?” he asked as they made their way through the gate. 

“Something tells me you already know the answer to that.”

He didn’t respond and, once they drew near the noodle stand, chose to change the subject. “I have a lot of questions for you.”

Bishop hopped onto a stool as Dogmeat lay under her boots, which did not touch the ground. “Such as?” 

“You’re here.” He slid onto a stool beside her. “Gotta ask why.”

“The scavenging possibilities.” She raised a hand to flag down Takahashi, the Protectron in charge of the stand. “And that warm, fuzzy feeling, I guess.”

He snorted. “I’m glad to hear it.”

“ _Nan-ni shimasho-ka?_ ” Takahashi said, coming to a stop on the other side of the counter. 

“Two noodles, please,” Deacon said, bringing his backpack around into his lap. He jammed a hand into it and pulled out a zippered pouch. 

Before he closed up his bag, Bishop caught a glance of a whole mess of fabrics. She didn’t see the guard uniform, though. He must have stashed it somewhere in the alley. “I’m guessing you do change clothes a lot.”

Deacon seemed to not hear her as he counted out bottle caps—this new world’s form of currency. “Here you go, my man.” 

The Protectron scooped up the caps and deposited them into a cash register behind it. Then, it went about whipping up their dinner. 

“We’re not here to talk about me,” Deacon said, swiveling to face her at an angle. He propped his elbow on the edge of the counter and rested his chin on his fist. “You decided to show up. So, we have other things to talk about.”

“I’m listening.”

"I told my people about you, and my boss wants me to make sure you can handle the type of work we do before I bring you back to HQ to meet everyone.” 

“Makes sense.”

“Good.” He leaned forward slightly and lowered his voice when he continued. His mouth barely moved as he spoke. “The old HQ got invaded by the... bad people. A lot of agents didn't make it out. Anyway, we're going back in to get this really important thing one of our people left behind. But, first, we have to go talk to a tourist—basically a lookout. He’ll let us in on what’s going on. So, yeah. That's what we're doing. And, if the boss likes you, you can join us. Sound good?"

Her eyebrow arched. “Are tourists what you used to spy on me?” 

He had the decency to give an embarrassed smile. “Maybe.”

She shook her head. “What’s this thing we’re getting?"

"Not sure, but it seems important if he's sending the best after it." He pointed at his chest and mouthed, “ _Me_.”

“Uh-huh. When do we leave?”

“I was thinking we’d take off in the morning, before the sun comes up.”

She nodded and accepted a steaming bowl from Takahashi. “Then, we’d better get to bed soon.”

Deacon turned back to the counter as Takahashi served him. “Gee, Bish. Buy a guy dinner first.”

“No, I—“ She stopped, realizing she was near penniless—or _cap_ -less. “Ah, shit. You know what? I don’t think I have enough caps for a room.”

“No worries. I already got it covered.”

“Oh. Well, thanks.” She took up a set of wooden chopsticks from one of the utensil cups set at intervals along the counter. “And thanks for the noodles.”

“Yeah, sure.” He opted for a plastic fork and got to work on his own dinner. 

Even though she couldn’t tell for sure, she could swear she felt his eyes on her as she ate. Her feeling was proved right after they finished and set off for the Dugout Inn. 

“You know how to use chopsticks, huh?” he said. “I think you may be the first person to ever use them here.”

She looked over at him. “Impressed?”

“Yeah, actually.” He opened the door into the inn and gestured for her to go first. 

Inside was dim, lit only by a couple of lights over the bar. Two burly men stood behind the bar, speaking quietly enough that she couldn’t hear. Other than that, the place seemed pretty dead, save for one patron who was awake and one who was not. 

Just to the right upon entering, Bishop noticed an old Port-A-Diner machine. She stepped over to it as Deacon continued to the bar. Leaning over to inspect the contents, she saw that the tiers contained a mess of moldy dishes and, on the highest tier, one perfectly preserved slice of pie. 

She chuckled to herself. This piece of pie had survived a nuclear apocalypse; her husband had not. She glanced up as Deacon came to stand beside her. 

“This thing take caps?” she asked, tapping the glass once with a knuckle.

“It still takes Pre-War money, but it’s not a risk worth taking, if you ask me,” Deacon said, stuffing his hands into his pockets. “The claw thing never grabs hold of it. Besides that—the thing’s been sitting in an airtight space with a bunch of moldy food. How good do you think it tastes?”

She considered that point for a moment. “You’re probably right.”

“I usually am.” He paused, then said, “I just winked, for your information.”

She ignored that. “Which way to my room?”

He gestured for her to follow him. They went by the bar—Bishop avoided the curious looks from the bartenders by putting Deacon between herself and them—and down a short hallway, passing by a few doors with large, white numbers spray-painted on them. 

“You’re in number four.” He passed her a key hanging off a faded leather keychain. “I’m in three.”

She unlocked her door and said over her shoulder, “Thank you.”

“‘No problem. Night, Bish.” He gave a two-fingered salute over his shoulder and disappeared into his room, the door barely making a sound as it closed behind him.

* * *

Here in the Dugout Inn, Bishop got the best sleep she’d had since the bombs dropped. She felt safe with layers of concrete, metal, and stadium blocking out the rest of the Commonwealth. She had locked the door, removed her windbreaker, and got underneath the frayed wool blanket. Dogmeat jumped up with her and lay alongside her, his nose nuzzled into her neck. 

She woke to the sound of knocking on her door. Dogmeat got up first, sniffing at the crack under the door. She watched him to determine if it was safe or not as she gathered her things. When he walked away, disinterested, she finally answered the door. 

Deacon stood on the other side, his backpack and rifle slung across his back. “Morning. How’d you sleep?”

“Pretty well. You?”

“Incredibly. Ready to go?”

She nodded, and they walked to the bar, behind which only one of the bartenders stood. They returned their keys, and then they were on their way. 

Bishop followed a short distance behind Deacon—at his insistence—as Dogmeat scouted ahead. Quite soon was it evident that they were traveling northwest. 

“Hey, uh, Deacon,” she said. 

“Yeah?” he said over his shoulder. 

“You know I came from this way, right?”

“Yeah. Why?”

A twinge of annoyance surfaced. “We couldn’t have met somewhere closer?” 

“I thought it would’ve been safest to meet in the city,” he replied, still marching along. “Not to mention, I had no idea if you’re familiar with the ‘Wealth, and I didn’t feel like running through a whole long list of places to see which ones you knew about. I figured everyone knew where Diamond City was, and even if they didn’t, they could find it pretty easily. Was it safe to assume that?”

It was not; she had lived in the Boston area since she was fifteen. “Yeah, I guess so.”

“Right. So, if I’d asked you if you knew where Lexington was, would you know?”

“I would, actually.”

“That’s great! I’ll make a list titled ‘Locations Bish Knows About’ for future meet-ups.” He spun around and began walking backward, lifting his feet high so he wouldn’t trip over anything. He pantomimed writing something down on a notepad. “Item number one: Diamond City. Item number two: Lexington. What else is there?” He tapped an invisible pen against the side of his face.

“Don’t forget Sanctuary, Concord, and the Red Rocket where you showed up and told me you’d been stalking me.”

“Ah, yes, of course. Items three through five.” He faux-scribbled them down, then pointed the invisible pen at her. “Excellent additions, _but_ I didn’t stalk you.”

“I’m still not convinced.” She looked past him at a fallen tree branch that he would surely trip over if she did not say, “Hey, watch where you’re walking—”

He turned back around in time to step over it. 

“—before you fall down and smack your head on a rock.”

“Thank you for your concern. I was starting to think you didn’t care about anything at all.”

The annoyance grew in size. “Because you know me, right?”

“No.” He turned his head to the side and gave her half a grin. “But, I’m sure I will.”


	4. Mine’s in the Shop

They reached the outskirts of Lexington by midmorning. Instead of the town, Deacon headed for a busted overpass. 

“The tourist should be up here,” he said, pulling himself up onto an angled slab of concrete. He reached a hand down. She grasped it, and he helped her up. “Now, when we get to him, he’s gonna ask you if you have a Geiger counter. You say, ‘Mine’s in this shop.’ Got it?”

“Got it,” she said. 

Together, they hoisted up Dogmeat. After getting over the initial irritation of being lifted up by his armpits, he walked ahead cautiously, nose to the ground and tail between his legs. 

Bishop gave the animal a pat on the back. “What is that, some sort of code?”

“That is exactly what it is,” Deacon said, ducking under a streetlight that had fallen on top of a hollow bus. “It’s to let other agents know we’re legitimate. I’m gonna let you do the talking, so you can get a feel for how this usually goes down.”

“Uh...” She barely had to duck at all. “I’m not sure if that’s a good—“

“You’ll do great—oh, look. See this?” He stopped at a rusted pickup truck and pointed at a recent, sloppy paint job in the shape of a plus sign encircled by short, sunburst lines. “These are rail-signs. We leave them to let other agents know what’s around. This one”—he gestured at the sign—“means there’s an ally up ahead, A.K.A our guy. There’s a few more, but I’ll show you later.”

She nodded along at his explanation. 

“Let’s get up there and meet him, then.”

They walked up the slope of the overpass. Here, Deacon allowed Bishop to take the lead. 

Before continuing, however, she clicked her tongue to get Dogmeat’s attention. “Anybody nearby, boy?” 

Dogmeat shot off like a bullet, ears perked. She watched him weave through the road, riddled with cracks and even gaping holes that, if he weren’t careful, would carry him to a swift death. He disappeared behind a tipped-over tractor-trailer. 

She waited for the telltale rip of a growl or angry bark, but the dog came back at a light trot, moments later. He seemed unbothered, so she went ahead with Deacon on her heels. 

Bishop kept her eyes down, confident that Dogmeat would alert them of any danger up ahead. 

Eventually, they came to a gigantic gap in the overpass. At the steep drop-off was a small encampment. A crinkled gray tarp was strung up at the side of a pale yellow Corvega sedan, providing some semblance of shelter. Outside of it was a small campfire, a big stockpot nestled in the coals. Steam curled lazily from the surface. 

A man sat on a metal folding chair, stirring the pot. He looked up quickly when he must have heard them approach. He reached for the rifle resting against the Corvega. “Do you have a Geiger counter?”

“Mine’s in the shop,” Bishop recited. 

The man relaxed, but he still held the rifle. “Glad to see you made it out here alright.” He looked past her at Deacon. “Is he with you?”

“I’m new,” Deacon said, stepping up to stand at her left. “She’s just showing me the ropes.”

The tourist looked back to Bishop for confirmation. 

She rolled with it and gave a swift nod. 

The man sighed and said, “Alright. Here’s the skinny.” He turned around and pointed downward, into the center of the town, where an aged Slocum’s Joe sat. Roof caving in, windows non-existent—and buzzing with a swarm of humanoid robots that Bishop had never seen before. “Place is crawling with Gen-One synths. So, if you’re gonna go in, I’d suggest the sewer entrance.” He pointed off to the west. “You’ll find it a ways over there.”

“Right.” Bishop gestured for Deacon to start back the way they came. “Thanks.”

When the trio was out of earshot from the tourist, Bishop asked, “So? How did I do?”

“Not bad. You’ll get some more practice if you do well here.” Deacon gave her an encouraging smile.

She didn’t return it, instead choosing to focus on the damaged roadway. “Those things in the Slocum’s... He said they were Gen-One synths? What does that mean?”

“Okay, so, there are three different types of synths: Gen-One, -Two, and -Three,” Deacon began before jumping off the end of the overpass. He turned back to help Dogmeat climb down. “Gen-Ones are the ones you saw down there. They look like something out of a comic book. Totally recognizable as _not human_.” He reached up to Bishop, but she climbed down by herself. Once they were safely on the ground, he took the lead. “Gen-Twos look... still not human, but they have some weird synthetic skin covering all the wires.“

“And, Gen-Threes?”

“Nearly indistinguishable from humans. The only way to tell is, uh, to perform an autopsy.”

“So, they have organs and stuff?”

“They have organs, they bleed, they cry, they... All of the stuff humans do, if you know what I mean.” He lifted his eyebrows suggestively over the rims of his sunglasses. 

“Gotcha.” She looked ahead, trying to spot the sewer entrance. “I could’ve met a Gen-Three synth and not even known it, huh?”

“You very well could have.” He trotted down a slope. “Entrance is right down here.”

The sewer entrance was a large metal cylinder obscured by tangled foliage. 

Deacon stuck his arm into the mix up to the elbow and wrenched the greenery aside. “After you.”

Though she was reluctant to walk into a dank, dark space with a stranger, she remembered she had a veritable attack dog and Deacon did not. She signaled for Dogmeat to go first, then she placed her right hand on the grip of her pistol and stepped through. 

Deacon shuffled around her in the small space. “Right this way.”

“You mean, the _only_ way,” she said, following him.

“Just wanted to make sure you didn’t go the wrong way, Bish.” 

“Yeah, right.” She copied his footsteps, not wanting to step on a sleeping feral ghoul or other kind of wasteland baddie. “Are we shooting those things—the Gen-Ones?”

He stopped at a security door blocking their progress. Next to it was a terminal mounted to the wall. He placed his hands on the keyboard and began clacking away at it. “That depends.”

“On?”

The door beeped, and the lock clicked. 

Deacon opened the door. This time, though, he went through first but reached back to hold it open for her. Once Bishop and Dogmeat were through, he dropped into a crouch. “It depends on if they shoot at us first.”

Bishop crouched as well and removed her pistol from its holster. After closing the door behind her, she held the gun carefully, her left hand cradling the butt of it. “Great.”

He lowered his voice to a near-whisper. “Yeah, so, we move slowly and quietly.” 

Her volume matched his. “You don’t want me taking the lead here?” 

“If you want to take the chance of getting your head zapped to ashes, then by all means...” He gestured for her to move ahead. 

“I’m good.”

Deacon nodded once, and they continued on. Luckily, the basement didn’t seem to have any of those synths they saw up top. They tried a stealthy approach—but Bishop accidentally kicked an old tin can. Bishop’s heart leapt into her throat. 

Deacon made a strained grunt and pushed her down behind a large piece of machinery just before a couple of synths came barreling in, laser rifles raised. Deacon put a finger to his lips. 

Together, they watched the synths patrol the space, babbling in robotic voices. 

“You cannot remain undetected for long.”

“Please reveal yourself.”

“Sensors indicating concealed organic lifeforms.”

Bishop’s eyes slid to Deacon’s sunglasses. _What now_? she mouthed. 

He took his finger from his lips for a brief moment before putting it back. Then, he hefted his rifle and leaned into her. With his mouth close to her ear, he breathed, “I have a silencer. I’ll shoot ‘em. Stay low.”

She hunched over even more, wedged her pistol between her stomach and her thigh, and covered her ears. She had half a moment to feel bad that the noise would startle Dogmeat, who was huddled faithfully against her side, before Deacon aimed over the machine and took his first shot. Dogmeat jumped but thankfully didn’t make a sound. 

After the last shot and the clunk of metal hitting the ground, Bishop ruffled the fur around Dogmeat’s neck. “Good boy.”

Deacon pointed the barrel of his rifle to the ceiling. Just barely loud enough for Bishop to hear him, he said, “Looks like it’s clear.”

Dogmeat wriggled out of Bishop’s grasp and slunk over to the robotic frames that Bishop didn’t want to call _bodies_. He sniffed at them but apparently didn’t find anything interesting before going off to scout the hallway across the room. Only then did Bishop and Deacon stand up. 

“Will he come back if he finds trouble?” Deacon asked as they moved in the direction Dogmeat had gone. 

“I hope so.”

“That... is not comforting.”

“Well, he’s not my dog, so...”

“He’s not? Whose dog is he?” 

She shrugged. “Someone’s, but not mine.”

Dogmeat sat at the end of the hallway. Beside him was a dark figure that lay prone on the ground. He pawed gently at the body, whimpering. Then, he trotted back to Bishop, looking up at her expectantly. 

Deacon stride forward and stopped to check the body. After a few tense moments, he whispered, “Shit.” 

Bishop drew closer unwillingly. She still had a Pre-War aversion to death. “Someone you knew?”

“Yeah,” he said, straightening. He turned his back to her. “Let’s keep moving.”

She hesitated to express her condolences. He walked away, and the moment was lost. 

They navigated the basement easily, as Deacon knew the way. They weaved through the upstairs offices, passing by a few more bodies that Deacon leaned down to check. They had all been people he seemed to know. It also seemed that the synths Deacon had put down in the basement were the only ones left. 

Finally, they came upon what appeared to be a supply closet. 

“Doc’s stuff should be in here,” Deacon said, opening the door. 

Inside, blood had pooled underneath the corpse of a man with shaggy brown hair. A pistol was clutched in his right hand. Unfortunately, it hadn’t been enough to fend off the other occupant of the room. 

A synth standing in the corner of the room animated, pointing a laser pistol at Deacon. “Engaging hostile life form.”

“Get down!” Deacon hollered as Dogmeat sprang at the synth. 

Bishop dropped to the floor and scuttled away, putting the wall between her and whatever fight Dogmeat had gotten himself into. 

On the other side of the doorway, Deacon was crouched, his rifle at the ready against the inside of the threshold. “Can’t get a clear shot! Call him off!”

“Dogmeat!” she yelled over the grating sound of his snarling. “Dogmeat, stop!”

The barking continued, but he began backing out of the room. The fur between his shoulders stood on end, his tail stuck straight out. Bishop wasn’t afraid of him, because his demeanor would swiftly change as soon as the threat was gone. 

And it was gone in a second. Deacon pulled the trigger, and the synth dropped to a heap of metal limbs on the ground. 

Bishop patted the back of Dogmeat’s neck. “Easy.” 

Deacon looked over at the pair. “You sure he’s not yours?”

Recalling her first day out of the vault and meeting the survivors in Concord, Bishop said, “Dogmeat takes care of his friends.”

“Huh.” Deacon closed the short space between himself and the man inside. He rolled the body over, and then his head hung between his shoulders. “ _Damn_. What a shame." 

"Did you know him, too?" she asked, already knowing the answer. 

"Tommy Whispers. One of the best agents we had." He scoffed and took the gun from the man’s limp hand.

Bishop stood, too, and stepped into the room, carefully avoiding the body. “I’m sorry, Deacon.”

“It happens.” He held the barrel of the pistol to offer the grip to her. "Take this. He called it Deliverer. He'd want you to have it."

She gave Deacon a look that he didn’t see. “Are you sure? He didn't know me."

"Well, I think he'd want _me_ to have it, so it's mine now, and I want to give it to you. Mainly because, if you're going to be a Railroad agent, you'll need something quieter than that bullhorn you’ve got there.”

"Valid point." She brought her backpack around, tucked away her gun, and then accepted Deliverer. Like hers, it was a ten-millimeter, only this one was equipped with a silencer. The grip was worn, and the black gunmetal was scratched in places but polished with care. Deliverer had been well-loved. 

“Maybe with this, you can help next time,” Deacon said, and rose to his full height.

She weighed Deliverer in her hand. It didn’t feel much different than hers. “I would’ve helped if you hadn’t told me not to.”

“It was probably best you didn’t, to be honest.” He turned to survey the room. “We didn’t know if there were more synths.”

“Another valid point.” She looked around as well. Metal shelving units lined the walls, cramping the already-small space. A random assortment of items littered the shelves: a few cans of purified water, a box of Dandy Boy Apples, two boxes of potato crisps, a box of some type of ammunition, and a small safe. 

“Ah, there it is.” Deacon entered a combination and pulled out two small leather satchels. He held up one marked with a small black _S.C._ in the bottom corner. “This is it.”

“What is it?”

“It’s a Stealth Boy.”

She blinked in surprise. Stealth Boys had been mentioned around the army base at which she had been stationed during her contracted stint. It was a device that could render the user nearly invisible for a short period of time, which she could now see would be invaluable to an organization like the Railroad. 

“The doc’s been working with Ti—with another Railroad agent to make it last longer,” Deacon explained. “This is the furthest along, so Doc said it was _imperative_ that we got it back.” He looked down at the other Stealth Boy, then offered it to her. “Here.”

“No, no. I shouldn’t. You already gave me—“

“I have a feeling you’ll need help being stealthy.” He half-grinned, but she wasn’t sure if he was joking or not. 

“Fine.” She took it. “Thank you.”

He nodded once and stepped over Tommy Whispers. “Let’s get the hell out of here.”


	5. A Church

They camped out for the evening in a burned-out house on the outskirts of Boston. The only door was boarded over, so they climbed in through a window. Deacon promptly shoved over a bookcase to cover the opening. Bishop began to make the smallest of campfires in the living room while Deacon went around with his rifle drawn, making sure they were alone. 

“Hey,” Deacon said as he descended the stairs, “there’s a couple of beds up there in decent shape. Barely any mold.”

Bishop gave him a thumbs-up as she blew gently on the budding flame. He sat down across from the makeshift fire-pit she had made with bricks, effectively extinguishing the flame. 

She slapped a hand to her forehead, then gestured at the fire pit. “Really?”

“Oh, oops.”

“Oops,” she echoed, and began the process again. 

“Here, I’ll make it up to you.” He dug through his bag for a solid minute before coming up with a twin-pack of Fancy Lads snack cakes. He reached over and set it on top of her backpack. “You may have _one_.”

“Wow, thanks.” 

“Is sarcasm, like, your thing? If so, the boss will absolutely despise me for bringing you on board.”

“They don’t despise you already?”

“Ouch!” He laughed all the same. “I sure hope she doesn’t. Would make things kinda awkward at HQ, seeing as how I’m the best agent.”

“I’ll believe that when I see it,” Bishop said, feeding bits of old newspaper to the newborn fire. 

“You’ll see tomorrow,” he said, leaning back against the broken sofa. He stretched his legs out at an angle to avoid the fire and crossed his ankles. 

“Uh-huh.”

He cracked an impish grin. “I get the feeling you’d like for me to shut up.”

She did not particularly care for the chatter, but she wasn’t in any position to tell him to leave her alone. She shrugged. 

“Alright, I’ll leave you alone. But”—he leaned forward—“I’ll take over making the fire, if you want to go poke around. I think I saw some empty cans in the kitchen.”

She looked up suddenly. “Steel or aluminum?”

“What’s the difference?”

“Steel—I can use that.” She handed him the newspaper. 

He started ripping the paper into short strips. “And you can _tell_ the difference?”

She stood up. Dogmeat’s head raised from where he lay on the floor near the fire and watched her as she headed into the kitchen. “Steel’s stronger,” she said, “and it’s what my armor is made of.” 

“Is that so? You really do learn something new everyday.” 

She headed into the kitchen, which wasn’t too far away. “The only thing I’ve learned today is what to say to other agents.”

“That’s all? What about all the rail-signs I told you about?” 

She began gathering the cans, all lined in a row on the kitchen table. She wondered briefly if Deacon had done that or if it was whoever was here before them. “The what?”

“The—the rail—oh. Very funny, Bish. You a comedian?”

“In a past life, maybe.” She carried her armful of cans back to the campfire and sat down, letting them roll off her arm to the floor. 

Deacon set aside the paper, having grown the fire enough to keep them warm. “I could believe it.” He pointed at the pack of Fancy Lads. “You gonna eat yours or what?”

Bishop looked at Deacon, trying to gauge his expression. She couldn’t. “I’d like to eat dinner first, if that’s okay with you.” She slid a fingernail underneath the faded label that previously advertised pork ‘n’ beans in obnoxious, unappetizing colors. 

Deacon snickered. “If it so pleases you. But, could you toss it back? I wanna have mine now.”

She paused her de-labeling and complied. Deacon caught the pack with a crinkle of plastic. 

Though she couldn’t be sure, she thought she felt his gaze on her as she slowly and methodically peeled the labels off all the cans and examined them to determine of what they were made. 

“Steel?” he asked, mouth full of extremely old—and likely irradiated—snack cake. 

“Only two.” She packed them into her bag and swept an arm to clear the others. They rattled and rolled away. 

“Yay.” He took a second and final bite. “So, is the power armor some kind of hobby?”

It was _not_ a hobby; it was her profession. 

“Yes,” she replied. 

“Interesting hobby. Where’d you pick that up?”

Annoyance resurfaced. She shot him with a glare. “Do you always interrogate the people you stalk?”

He laughed. “Jeez. If this is an interrogation to you, I don’t know how well you’ll handle such a high-stress job.”

“I’ll be okay,” she said, “as long as you don’t ask about me.”

“Fine by me. I wasn’t at all interested in you anyway.”

She inspected the lenses of his sunglasses, reflected flames flickering in them, and the straight set of his mouth. Somehow, she had a hunch that was a lie.

* * *

“This is it,” Deacon said, gesturing at the crumbling brick façade of a church. Beside the door, she noticed a small, white lantern painted on the brick.

“A church,” she said, and half-smiled at the idea of their names. 

“Yeah, um, about that,” he said as he pulled open the door for them. “You won’t burst into flames when we go in, will you?”

She snorted at the jab. “Won’t know ‘til we try.”

They stepped inside. 

She held out her arms in front of her and looked them up and down. “See any sparks?”

“Nope! Looks like we’re good to go.” He bent over and reached under a pew. His hand came up holding an oil lantern, which he switched on. A dull glow warmed a small radius. “This way.” He ducked under a wooden beam fallen from the rafters. Underneath was a hole in the wall, just big enough for them to crouch through. 

She worried for a moment that he could be luring her into some kind of fucked up trap. To calm herself, she kept her focus on the dog sniffing along the ground ahead of them. If there was anything wrong, Dogmeat would be the first alert. 

“Welcome to the catacombs,” Deacon said, brushing his fingers along the dusty stone walls. The passage was narrow but just wide enough for them to walk side-by-side. “Kinda spooky, I know—but not to worry; you’ve got me.” He looked over at her and flashed a cheeky grin. 

“Yeah? And what can you do?” 

He inhaled sharply and exhaled a breathy chuckle. “You really have a way of boosting my ego.”

Her crooked smile made a return. “One of my many talents.”

“I can’t wait to see the rest.” After making a few turns, Deacon stopped them at a dead-end. “Any questions before we go in?”

Nervousness hit her suddenly. What if she had done all this for nothing? “Um, do you think they’ll like me?”

Deacon gave a sputtering laugh. “If _that’s_ what you’re worried about, you’ll be fine.” He pressed his fingers into the stone wall, and a hidden panel slid open to reveal a keypad. He turned his back to block her view as he punched in an eight-digit code. “The door’s on a timer. Once it’s open, don’t be shy. Just go on in.”

The wall shifted, pressing in and then sliding to the left, revealing a stone room. A few lit lanterns were set around the perimeter of the room, revealing how wide it was; just barely wider than the passages they had just traversed. Directly across from them was another doorway, leading into a stairway that led down. 

Once the wall was sealed, Deacon went ahead, aiming for the stairs. “When we get in there, let me do the talking, okay?”

Bishop followed him down the stairs with Dogmeat between them. They could not descend the last half, though; a boy blocked their progression, his long legs stretched out to cover one step. In his right hand, he held a paperback novel, nearly falling apart at the spine. 

Without looking up, he said with a light Bostonian accent, “You’ve been gone a while. Almost crossed your name off the board.”

“Aw, you missed me that much, huh?” Deacon teased. 

The boy looked up then—and his brown eyes locked onto Bishop. “Who’s this?”

It was in that moment that she knew Deacon had lied to her. She was not expected here in Headquarters, nor had he received permission from whoever was in charge to take her out on a mission—a mission that was, apparently, extremely confidential by the way Deacon had spoken vaguely of it in Diamond City. 

“I left that note for you at the drop by Ticon. Did you not find it, or were you too busy reading smut to check for something?”

The boy hastily tucked the book into his jacket before he got up. Judging by the smoothness of his tan skin, he couldn’t have been older than twenty. “You tryin’ to pick a fight, Deac? Did you miss _me_ that much?”

“You know I did, baby. But, that note—?”

The boy flipped a hand. “I didn’t get a note. Where’d you leave it?”

“The trashcan by—“

“I don’t use trashcans, dummy. You should know that.” He looked back at Bishop, who gave a tight-lipped smile in an attempt to not feel awkward. It didn’t work. “Should we be—? Is she—?”

“She’s with me. She’s cool,” Deacon said. He glanced over his shoulder at Bishop. “Bish, this is Drummer Boy. DB, this is Bishop.”

Drummer Boy—that had to also be a fake name—looked up at Bishop and cautiously extended his right hand, as if afraid she might bite him. 

She shook it and found his firmness to be somewhat lacking. Then again, judging by his slender frame, he didn’t seem to be the same type of field agent as Deacon. “Nice to meet you.”

Drummer Boy gave her a small smile. “You, too. I’m sure Deacon’s told you all about me.” 

Deacon stood there stoically. “Yeah, I told her all about the nerd that coordinates dead drops, like that’s the almost interesting thing going on around here. Now, outta our way, _please_.”

Drummer Boy’s eyes widened, and he pushed up his newsboy cap. Fitting for him, she thought, if he was some kind of messenger. “Hey, wait,” he said. “You got the—the thing? Doc’s thing, whatever it is?”

“We sure did.”

Drummer Boy smiles. “Oh, man. He’s gonna be so happy.”

“Doc Carrington? _Happy_? Are we talking about the same guy?”

“I know! You’ll see. He’s been yammerin’ about it since he sent you off. Don’t even get me started on Tom.”

Deacon held up a hand as Drummer Boy pressed himself flat against the wall to let them pass. “That’s okay. I believe you. C’mon, Bish.”

Drummer Boy nodded at Bishop as she passed, and he said under his breath, “He treatin’ you okay?” 

This... was odd. Deacon proclaimed he was the Railroad’s best agent. But, she supposed that whether he was well-liked did not correlate. She could see why no one would like him, though, if she was being honest; he was a little arrogant, liked to joke around a lot, and the faux familiarity made her want to yell at him. 

She simply nodded as well. 

“And Deac, I gotta talk to you when you got a minute,” Drummer Boy said. 

Deacon raised a hand in acknowledgment. 

They descended into a stone room, similar to the room before the stairs, but wide enough to fit several workstations and a bunch of beds to one side, all draped with dingy curtains. Her eye was immediately drawn to the empty power armor frame in the corner of the room, near another doorway leading somewhere she couldn’t see. 

The next thing she noticed were the agents. They varied in every way a human could vary, but she noticed there weren’t many of them. Five? Maybe six? It would explain why Deacon sought to recruit her, some nobody he decided to stalk in the wasteland. She looked toward the beds, trying to see if maybe there were some asleep, and then she figured more were probably sprawled out across the Commonwealth. 

“Deacon? Who the hell is this?”

Bishop’s attention snapped to the woman who had spoken: thin, middle-aged, and redheaded. Her expression was sharp, her narrow stare and the barrel of a pistol trained on Bishop. 

Bishop’s heart dropped into her stomach. 

“Ah, Dez. Desdemona. My dear, my darling.” Deacon sauntered forward, toward the large table Desdemona stood behind. Upon it were scattered papers, maps, pencils; it looked like she was planning something. Deacon brushed aside some pencils and rested his palms on the table’s edge. “How have you been?”

“ _Answer_ me, dammit.”

“This is my very good friend, Bishop,” he said, sweeping his arm in a grand gesture toward Bishop. “And she’s come all this way to meet you. So, the least you could do is put the gun down.”

Bishop shifted uncomfortably. Was this how Deacon had felt the night they met? She would have to apologize to him later. 

“Who the hell is she, Deacon?” Desdemona repeated. 

“Look. Before you get yourself riled up, I had some of my people keep an eye on her for a few months. She’s fine in my book. In fact, she put down at least thirty Gen-Ones herself in the Switchboard. Isn’t that right, Bish?”

Bishop nodded, wary of all the eyes now on her. “Well, Deacon did most of—“

“Don’t be modest,” Deacon interrupted. “You saved my sorry ass back there—more than once.” He turned back to Desdemona. “She even ended up carrying me out after I twisted my ankle.”

Bishop had to work at keeping her expression neutral. The ease of his lies perturbed her, but she didn’t object. If this was what it took to get her in, she would go along with it. 

Desdemona examined Bishop with a critical eye. Slowly, she lowered the gun. “Is that so?” 

Bishop couldn’t tell if she bought Deacon’s story. 

“It’s so,” Deacon said. “I really think she could be an asset. Maybe even the next me.”

Desdemona visibly warmed up. “Well...” She came around the side of the table. “I’m sorry for my rudeness, but it’s necessary in this line of work.”

“Oh, I understand,” Bishop said, waving a hand. “Can never be too careful.”

“Right you are.” 

“If it’s okay with you,” Deacon said, bringing Desdemona’s attention back to him, “Bishop and I need to return the prototype to Doc.”

“So, you got it? He’ll be glad to hear it.” 

Deacon turned his back to Desdemona. His light brows were raised over his sunglasses, and he held his tongue between his teeth as he smiled. 

“Oh, and Deacon?”

He dropped the silly expression just before he turned around. “Ya?”

“I trust you to—“

“Don’t worry about it, boss. I got it.”

Desdemona nodded, and Deacon nodded toward a chem station in the corner near the entrance. A dark-haired man in a white lab coat stood at the station, writing on a clipboard. 

“Hey, Doc!” Deacon plopped his backpack down on the worktable beside the station. A glass test tube rolled toward the edge of the table. “Got something for you.”

Doc swiped up the test tube before it could fall. “So, you were successful?”

“You could say that.” Deacon fished out the modified Stealth Boy and handed it over. 

Doc’s expression didn’t change, but he clapped a hand on Deacon’s shoulder. Deacon’s eyebrows drew together, and he smiled hesitantly. Apparently, this was not the doc’s usual behavior. 

“I have some caps for your trouble,” Doc said, turning. That was when he spotted Bishop. “New recruit?”

“You didn’t hear my whole spiel right in the middle of the room, Carrington?”

“I was busy.”

“Well, yes. New recruit, so be nice.”

“I am always nice.” Doc stretched out a hand to Bishop and shook hers firmly. “Welcome.”

“Thank you,” she said, though she didn’t feel particularly welcome. 

While Doc counted out some caps pulled from a coffee tin, Deacon turned to her. “Whatever he gives us, we’ll split it even.”

Her eyebrow rose. She hardly felt she deserved any caps for simply watching him do all the work. “Really? I don’t think I—“

He scoffed. “Don’t be modest, Bish.”

* * *

After a few agents came up to her to welcome her to the Railroad, Bishop’s anxiousness subsided. One agent in particular, a woman called Glory—with beautifully contrasting silver hair and brown skin and who spoke with a husky voice—asked to pet Dogmeat. Bishop didn’t have to answer; Dogmeat gently head-butted Glory’s hand, eager for pats. 

Deacon got Bishop settled in the balcony of the church upstairs, then went off to speak to Drummer Boy. She had a lovely view of both the night sky from a hole in the roof and also the wreckage below that allowed there to be a hole. 

She spread out her sleeping bag near the view—but not directly under it, just in case it rained or radstormed—and sat down on top of it. 

Deacon didn’t return for a while. She ate a can of Cram in silence while Dogmeat chewed happily on the leg of a mole rat he had hunted earlier. 

When Deacon came back, he was without his backpack. He passed her a twin-pack of Fancy Lads, one of which was missing. “You never ate yours.”

“Oh,” she said, and unwrapped the remaining cake. “Thanks.” As she took a bite, she made a point of looking around. “I take it you sleep somewhere else?”

“Ah, yeah. I have a private room downstairs. I figured you’d like some privacy, too. At least at first.”

His assumption was entirely correct. 

“Thank you,” she said. 

“If you don’t need anything else, I’m gonna go ahead and turn in.”

Bishop scratched Dogmeat’s side. “I think we’re okay.”

“Good. Come on down in the morning. I’ll meet you in the catacombs.” He gave that same two-fingered salute he had given her in the Dugout Inn, and then he was gone. 

Bishop lay down and zipped herself into the sleeping bag. Dogmeat crunched down on bone somewhere next to her. She knew that as soon as he was done, he would curl up at her side. 

She looked through the post-apocalyptic skylight and saw no moon but plenty of stars.


	6. Hi, Honey

“Tell her exactly what you told me.”

Drummer Boy blinked a few times. “Why didn’t you just tell her last night?”

“If she’s gonna be an agent,” Deacon said, stirring his coffee lazily, “she needs to learn how to deal with...” He pointed his spoon at Drummer Boy. “You.”

“ _Deal_ with me? I take offense to that.”

“You take offense to everything.”

“Don’t even start...”

Bishop listened to them bicker while she perused a Pre-War magazine. It was one she never would have read before. However, visual entertainment was sparse these days. She realized as she flipped a page displaying a cologne ad that their bickering was even better visual entertainment. She closed the magazine, picked up her mug, and let her eyes dart between the pair. 

“—and you threw up all over my shoes. They were practically new,” Deacon said. 

“That’s what you get for making me drink—“

“Well, that’s enough of that,” Bishop said, finally ready to move on. “Drummer Boy, what, exactly, do I need to know?”

“Right.” Drummer Boy have Deacon a look and then turned to Bishop. “There’s a dead drop in Monsignor Plaza.”

“That’s it?”

“That’s it.” He shrugged.

She looked at Deacon. “You could’ve just told me that last night.”

Deacon’s mouth pursed. “You do understand what I’m trying to do, right?”

He was trying to have her learn through experience. She knew that. It was a commendable effort, albeit a bit unnecessary for something like this. “Sure,” she said. “So, where should I look for it?” 

“They’re always in mail drop boxes or newspaper dispensers,” Drummer Boy said. “ _Not_ trashcans.”

Deacon flipped his middle finger. 

Drummer Boy rolled his eyes. “Do you have any other questions, Bishop?”

She had _so_ many questions: _How many agents are there total? How long has the Railroad been established? Why did you join? When did you join? How_ old _are you?_

She shook her head. 

“Then, we’ll be off.” Deacon got up from the table in HQ’s makeshift kitchen, taking his coffee mug with him. “But, first, there’s someone I’d like for you to meet.”

Bishop thanked Drummer Boy before following Deacon to a workstation nearby. Standing at the workbench was a tall, gangly man with an old aviator cap in his head. He muttered to himself, a pencil sticking out of the corner of his mouth. 

“Tink,” Deacon said, garnering the man’s attention, “this is Bishop.”

“Oh, new girl, right?” The man gave her a toothy smile, the pencil clenched between his molars. “Tinker Tom, resident... quartermaster. Yeah, that sounds good.”

“What does that mean?” she asked. 

“I handle all the supplies agents need for the road. So, basically, food and weapons.”

“Not to mention, he fixed the toaster,” Deacon added. 

Tinker Tom pointed at Deacon. “That, too.”

Bishop gestured to the other side of the large room. “Is that power armor frame yours?” 

“Mine? Uh, not really,” he said, and then he grew eager. “Why? You got a set I could mess with?”

Her power armor was her most prized possession, and the thought of someone else _messing_ with it was deeply unsettling. She shook her head. If she wasn’t mistaken, Deacon smirked. 

“Ah, well, if you happen to find any, _please_ bring it back,” Tinker Tom said. 

“Will do.”

“Tink, there’s... there’s something else I need to tell you.” The set of Deacon’s mouth was grave. “You might want to sit down.”

Tinker Tom’s eyes narrowed as they landed on Deacon. “You gonna tell me something I don’t wanna hear?”

“Yes.”

He turned back to his work. “Then, don’t tell me.” 

“Bishop, show him your gun. The one I gave you.”

Tinker Tom looked up, his brow furrowed. 

Not wanting to upset someone she didn’t know, Bishop hesitated. “Why?”

“Just do it,” Deacon said, and the seriousness of his voice sounded strange coming from his mouth. “Please,” he added when she didn’t make a move.

She had to admit that she liked Deacon’s goofy demeanor more compared to this side of him. Reluctantly, she unholstered Deliverer. 

Tinker Tom went rigid, his eyes locked on Deacon. Bishop saw a deep-rooted suspicion within them. 

“Look, Tink.” 

Only Tinker Tom’s eyes moved. They popped wide open at the sight of Deliverer and bounced back to Deacon. “He’s...?”

Deacon nodded. “You can put that away, Bish.”

Bishop complied. She tried to keep her eyes averted—uncomfortable, to say the very least—but her curiosity made her glance back up at the man whose eyes glistened with fresh tears. Who was Tommy Whispers to Tinker Tom?

“Well...” Tinker Tom cleared his throat, took up a permanent marker, and slashed a thick black line across the paper on which he had been writing. “That puts a damper on things.”

“Yeah, uh... I’m sorry, man,” Deacon said. 

“Oh, it’s cool, it’s cool.” Tinker Tom made a few more lines, creating a large asterisk. He wiped his eyes with the back of his wrist before looking at Bishop. “So, you’ll hang onto that now, huh?”

“If you want it back—,” she began, but Tinker Tom lifted a hand. 

“I bequeath unto you Deliverer,” he said, “but as a requirement, I’ll need to take measurements of your hands.”

“Wh—?”

“The mods I was working on”—he lifted his clipboard for her to clearly see the black asterisk—“were for Tommy’s hands specifically. I’m willing to bet your hands are smaller.”

“Um, okay, then.”

“How long will that take?” Deacon asked. “We should be heading out soon.”

“Just a few minutes, I promise.” Tinker Tom pulled a tape measure out of one of the many pockets in his overalls. 

Bishop stood there while Tinker Tom painstakingly measured each of her fingers, the distance between her wrist and the tip of her middle finger, the width of her palm. It took longer than a few minutes, as Tinker Tom had to stop frequently to record the measurements on a fresh sheet of paper. All the while, Deacon stood against a pillar nearby, his arms folded over his stomach and his right foot tapping. 

“Anything else you need to measure?” Deacon asked when the measuring was finally done. “Maybe her eye sockets for a new scope?”

Tinker Tom’s face lit up as if he had had an epiphany. 

“Maybe when we come back,” Bishop offered, stepping back before Tinker Tom could come at her face with his tape measure.

“Sounds good! You guys be careful out there,” Tinker Tom said. He pointed the still-extended tape measure at Bishop. “Especially you. I have some really cool ideas for Deliverer, and I’d hate to have to start all over for a second time.”

She hesitated, then nodded, baffled by how quickly he was able to bounce back after almost being driven to tears. 

“Let’s go, Bish,” Deacon said, nodding to the stairwell that ascended into the catacombs. “Later, Tink.”

* * *

Deacon opened up the mail slot and stuck his hand in, feeling up the inside of it. Bishop faced the opposite way, watching his back. 

“Jesus, where the hell did he tape this thing?” Deacon muttered. 

“Can’t find it?” she asked, glancing at him over her shoulder. 

“It’s not here. The little shit—“

“There’s another one over there.” She pointed across the street at the green mailbox on the opposite side when he turned around. 

“Oh. Maybe that’s it.” Deacon started toward it. “He really should be more specific.”

“What, you don’t like scavenger hunts?” 

“Depends on what I find at the end.”

“So, you like the actual hunt but the prize could ruin it?”

He grinned lopsidedly. “Are you trying to get to _know_ me, Bish?”

She wanted to ask what the point of having a partner was if they didn’t talk to each other, but then she remembered she had almost yelled at him for doing the same thing. She clamped her mouth shut. 

He chuckled and gestured for her to step up to the mailbox. 

Bishop took a peek into the slot, wanting to make sure she wasn’t going to disturb any potential residents, but it was too dark to really see anything. She put her hand inside anyway. 

“Feel anything?” he asked. 

“Uh...” That was when she felt something stuck to the underside of the mailbox’s top. “Yeah, there’s something here.” Carefully, she peeled it off and brought it out. 

It was an orange holotape that fit into the palm of her hand, and Dogmeat popped up onto his hind legs for a brief moment to try to get a whiff of it, should it have been a tasty snack. 

A shock of nausea struck her as she suddenly remembered the holotape Codsworth had given her months ago. She still hadn’t listened to it, though it was already in the holotape slot of her Pip-Boy, nestled at the bottom of her backpack. 

She realized vaguely that Deacon was saying something, but she couldn’t hear him. 

Deacon leaned down so his face was the only thing in her field of vision. “You okay?”

“Yeah,” she lied. “Cool as a cucumber.”

“You look like you’re gonna be sick.”

“I’m fine.” She set her backpack on top of the mailbox and began rifling through her things to get to the Pip-Boy.

Deacon whistled lowly as she brought it out and switched out the tapes. “Where’d you find that thing?”

She surprised herself with the lie that slipped out. “Bought it off a guy on my way to the ‘Wealth.”

“And yet, you didn’t have the caps to pay for a room in Diamond City.”

“I’ll give you three guesses as to where all my caps went.” She held the device with one hand and turned a few dials to get the holotape to play. As a man’s voice began to speak through the Pip-Boy, Bishop tucked the other holotape into the pocket of her windbreaker. 

“ _Update. Observed unusual activity has ceased. Window is open for a heavy to make contact but they should act now. The package is still in my possession. It cannot remain here safely for much longer. Out_.”

“Good,” Deacon said, and he began walking away. Dogmeat trailed after him, sniffing at his heels. “Very, very good.”

“Where are we going?” she asked, rushing to catch up while shoving the Pip-Boy back into her bag. 

“Bunker Hill. Ever been?”

She had. Many, many years ago, when she had first moved to Boston. She suspected it had changed since then, so she replied, “Nope. What’s there?”

“The agent we’re meeting. Remember the countersign?”

“Uh, ya. I remember it.”

She couldn’t be sure, but she was sure he gave her a look.

* * *

It was early in the evening when they reached Bunker Hill. It was a _bit_ different. The monument was crusted with dirt and missing chunks of granite in some places—but it stood tall regardless. Around it were walls constructed with scraps of wood, cement blocks, and wire fencing.

“Main gate’s this way,” Deacon said as they circled around to the south side of the monument. “Our agent should be somewhere inside.”

She looked up at the monument as they climbed the steps. “Can we get rooms here?”

“Sorta. They have some shacks we can hole up in for the night—if we don’t need to head out right away, anyway.”

Inside the settlement, there were counters for shopkeepers, though most of them seemed to be closing up for the evening. 

A woman in a sharp, gray suit approached them as Deacon looked around for whoever he was looking for. “Mr. Doe,” she said, simply. 

Deacon smiled at her. “Kessler. Been too long.”

“Not long enough,” Kessler said, to which Deacon laughed. “He’s in the back.”

Deacon led Bishop and Dogmeat around the obelisk. Bishop pretended not to feel Kessler’s cool gaze on her as they went. 

“That’s him. Old Man Stockton.” Deacon gestured nonchalantly at a man sitting at the bar, the only vendor that seemed to be open. 

“Is that really his name?” she inquired, her voice low. She couldn’t fathom why anyone would want to be referred to as _old man_. 

“That’s what he’s called, yes. You really think Deacon is _my_ name?”

She looked up at him suddenly, curiosity sparking. She hadn’t actually thought of what his real name might be. He looked like a Deacon, though. “Well, If it’s not Deacon or Mr. Doe, what is it?”

“Trying to get to know me: strike two.” He smirked. 

She decided she wouldn’t ask him anything else ever again—not even what he wanted to eat for dinner that night. 

They sat down at the bar, Bishop between Deacon and the assumed Stockton. Dogmeat sat directly behind Bishop’s stool to wait. 

She faced the bar while Deacon ordered them a couple of beers. As the bartender was distracted, Bishop said, “Do you have a Geiger counter?”

Stockton glanced over at her. “Mine’s in the shop.”

“Stockton?”

“The very same. And you are?”

“Bishop. And this is—“

“He knows who I am.” Deacon reached across Bishop to shake Stockton’s hand. 

“Good to see you’re still alive, Deacon,” Stockton said. 

“Same to you. Take it away, Bish.”

“Is the package here?” Bishop inquired, accepting an opened Gwinnett Pale from the disinterested bartender. 

“Yes,” Stockton said, idly swirling the amber liquid in his glass, “and it’s safe for now. I assume you received my message?”

“We did,” Bishop said. “Where should we pick it up?” 

“Cambridge Church.” Stockton took a sip of his drink. “But a caravan came through a little while ago and said they spotted raiders in the area. You’ll need to clean it up before I can make the delivery. I’ll be keeping an eye out from a distance.”

“Is there a certain time frame we need to get it done?”

“By tomorrow night, if it’s possible. I’d like for you to have received the package by eight.”

“And if it’s not possible?”

“If it’s not, leave a message in the same place as mine, and we’ll decide what to do next that way.”

She nodded. “Then, we’ll do that in the morning. Right, Deacon?”

“Right, Bish,” Deacon said. “Let’s get some shut-eye. We’ll see ya, Old Man.”

“I hope that’s true. Have a good night, the both of you,” Stockton said. 

After Deacon rented them a shack, the three of them left Stockton to his drink. While Bishop and Stockton spoke, Deacon swiftly polished off his beer and left the empty bottle for the bartender to collect. Bishop still held her full bottle; she had forgotten to tell Deacon she didn’t normally like to drink. 

Deacon noticed. “Do you drink beer? I didn’t even think to ask.”

“Oh, it’s fine.” She would dump some when he wasn’t looking. “I was just busy talking to him, and I forgot to drink it.”

“By the way,” he said, and gestured for her to step into the shack before him, “I’m pretty impressed with how you handled that. Very direct, very professional—I may make an agent if you yet.”

She rolled her eyes, though he didn’t see, and sat down at the edge of one of the two cots. She took a small sip of the beer. It wasn’t very good, but she swallowed it anyway. 

Deacon sat on the other cot and dropped his hefty backpack on the rickety floorboards between them, nearly slamming down on Dogmeat’s paw. The dog gave a soft warning growl, to which Deacon said, “Sorry, buddy.” He patted Dogmeat’s head and looked up at Bishop. “You ready for some real action tomorrow?”

“Sure.” She took another sip of beer. She hadn’t been thinking about fighting raiders tomorrow. No, she had been thinking that this would be the first time they slept together in close quarters. She wondered if he was a light sleeper or if he snored. 

He didn’t say anything for a while as he dug around in his bag. Then, he stopped, aiming his face toward her. “You’re really hard to peg, you know that?”

She downed another gulp of beer and replied, “Thought I warned you against trying.”

“I mean, I’ve figured some things out on my own.”

She stared at her own reflection in his lenses. “Have you?”

He gave a one-shouldered shrug. 

“Well, don’t leave me hanging, Deacon. What have you figured out?”

“I’ve figured out...” He leaned forward and rested his elbows on his knees. His fingers steepled like a cartoonish villain. “That you don’t like to talk much.”

That wasn’t what he was going to say.

She blinked a few times. “Was that hard for you, or...?”

His serious expression broke into a smile. “You have no idea.”

She fought the urge to smile back as she lay down with her back to him. “Go to sleep, Mr. Doe. We have a big day tomorrow.”

He chuckled and turned off the lantern.

* * *

Bishop waited for Deacon’s breathing to even out. To her delight, he didn’t snore. 

As quietly as she could, she pulled the Pip-Boy and Nate’s holotape from her bag. Dogmeat watched her from his place by the small table. She simply whispered, “It’s okay, boy” in an attempt to keep him from getting excited. Unsurprisingly, it worked. 

She waited another minute or so to make sure Deacon hadn’t woken up, and then she left the shack. 

There was an unpleasantly chilly wind. She cinched the drawstring on her hood. She always felt silly walking around like that, but if it kept the wind from freezing her ears off, she didn’t care—especially since some people walked around in literal rags these days. 

She made her way to the row of outhouses nearby and locked herself into one, sliding the deadbolt into place. With a shaking hand, she switched out the holotapes; she told herself the reason her hand shook was because of the cold. She was lying. 

She made sure the volume was the lowest it could go. She clicked over to the file entitled _Hi, Honey!_ , and she pressed her ear to the speaker as the message began. 

“ _Hi, honey_ ,” Nate said, and he sounded almost happy. When had he recorded this? “Shaun’s here, too. Say hi, Shaun...” There was the unmistakable sound of an infant burbling.

 _Oh_. This message had to have been recorded within the last couple of months before the bombs fell. 

Nate continued, “ _I just wanted to say that—well, I love you. I love you so much. And, I’m—I know I’ve apologized so many times before, but... Well, I really hope you’ll see how good this can be for us. If you could give him a chance, I just know you’ll fall in love with him, just like I did. He’s such a good baby, honey. And you always said how you wanted kids someday—_ ”

Bishop yanked her head back so fast, she nearly gave herself whiplash. She shut off the recording. Now, she shook with pure rage. 

That child had not been hers, no. Shaun was Nate’s son, whom he had with woman younger than even Bishop. Bishop had only turned twenty-six in April that year, but Nate was no spring chicken. They had celebrated his forty-ninth birthday in February. 

He told her over dinner in Boston one evening in July. He told her that he had made a mistake. He told her that when the mistake was born— _any day now_ , he’d said—that the mistake would be coming home with him. She sat silently, soaking in this new and unwanted information. When she didn’t say anything, Nate went on to explain how the mother felt she wasn’t ready to raise a child, least of all on her own. Bishop could not have cared less. 

This line of action was smart on his part, however; he knew she wouldn’t embarrass herself by causing a scene in public. But, he didn’t expect that she wouldn’t even react when they got home. She locked herself into their bedroom, opened up the closet, and dismantled his entire wardrobe with the scissors from the small sewing kit in her nightstand. Then, she lay down on their marital bed with her shoes still on and stared blankly at the dark ceiling. She didn’t know where he had slept that night. Perhaps on the uncomfortable sofa he had insisted upon when they first moved into that house. She hoped his back hurt the next morning as he wore his wrinkled, slept-in suit to work. 

That was what she got for marrying a man she hardly knew, she supposed. He cheated and had the audacity to bring home the product of it, regardless of how she felt. 

And she had felt betrayed. Though they hadn't really known each other when they got married, they had made promises to each other to stay faithful. He broke his promise, and he was dead to her. 

She didn’t speak to him again after that. Not until the bombs dropped. 

When Shaun was brought home in early August, she took one look at him, and that was enough for her. She began spending most of her time at work. When her boss told her to go home, she would spend the remainder of her time working on her car. Nate bought Codsworth to help with Shaun and the extra housework a newborn caused—because Bishop sure as hell wasn’t going to do it—and the rest was history. 

In the present, Bishop’s anger surged in a way it hadn’t when Nate confessed to her his misdeed. Her blood was like lava coursing through her veins. She had to place the Pip-Boy on the floor of the outhouse so she wouldn’t throw it into the shitter. Her fingers clenched and unclenched, over and over, itching to hit something. But, she didn’t. She sat there, seething, until she couldn’t stand the stench any longer—and then she returned to the shack and lay down like nothing had happened.


	7. Strike Three

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For whoever is interested, I just made a Twitter @campsearchlight ! I’d love to get to know y’all ❤️

Bishop looked through the raiders’ various containers and bags while Deacon searched the bodies. It was obvious that the raiders had planned to set up shop here. Unfortunately for them, the church had not provided much protection. 

“You did pretty well, Bish,” Deacon said, taking a seat on one of the pews. He held a can of purified water pilfered from one of the raiders. 

“You sound surprised.” She sat on the opposite end from him with her own prize: a box of potato crisps. 

“I am! The way you cowered behind me at the Switchboard... Well, I didn’t peg you for much of a fighter.”

She narrowed her eyes at him, but he wasn’t looking in her direction. “I _cowered_. Right.”

He cracked open the can and offered it to her across the empty expanse of dark wood between them. “Am I remembering wrong?”

She accepted the can, trading it for the box of crisps. “You’re most definitely remembering it wrong. Are you getting senile?”

“Senile—hah!” He opened the plastic cradled in the box and stuck his whole hand in. “I’m not quite there yet. Gimme a few more years.”

Would they still know each other in a few years? Would both of them even be alive?

She averted her gaze as she sipped from the can. She almost asked how many years but stopped herself; she wasn’t going to earn a third strike for asking about him. “So, we have some time before the package arrives. What should we do until then?”

“We could play cards. I have some in my bag somewhere—“

“Forget it.” She kicked away some rubble and slid down to the ground. “By the time you find them in there, it’ll be time to go.” 

Dogmeat stepped up to Bishop and lay down beside her, resting his head on her thigh. In turn, she rested her hand on the top of his head. 

“If I start looking now,” Deacon said, unzipping his bag, “we might get in a game or two before Old Man Stockton gets here. Do you play poker?”

“No.”

“Really? How about gin?”

“Uh, nope.”

“Okay...” He produced a deck of worn cards. He removed the thick rubber band holding them together and began shuffling. “So, what do you know how to play? Go Fish?”

Bishop scratched behind Dogmeat’s ear, setting off a rhythmic thumping of his tail against her backpack. “You asked _if_ I play, not if I know _how_ to play.”

He laughed, and the shuffling stuttered. “Touché.” He shifted to the floor as well and dealt out a round of Go Fish. 

It was during their third game, after they had each won once, that Deacon asked, “Couldn’t sleep last night?”

Her eyes darted to his face. As usual, what she could see of his expression didn’t give anything away. “Huh?”

“You were gone for a while,” he said, switching one of his cards around in his hand. “Couldn’t sleep?”

“I thought you were asleep.”

“I’m a light sleeper. Any threes?” 

Of course he was. She sighed and rubbed her the side of her face. “Go fish.”

He drew a card from the deck. Only then did his mouth shift into a smirk. “Not gonna answer?”

“If you must know, I had to use the toilet.” It wasn’t a lie, per se. It wasn’t the truth, either. 

“For twenty minutes?”

“What’s it to you?”

“Dogmeat and I were worried, is all.”

Dogmeat raised his head at the sound of his name, then laid it back down on Bishop’s leg when he realized he wasn’t being called. 

“Yeah, right.” Bishop realigned her cards, glancing over the numbers so she wouldn’t have to look at him for the moment. “Dogmeat—probably. You? I don’t think so.”

“Okay, alright. I was curious.”

She sniffed as she looked over her cards again. “You can assume that if I get up in the middle of the night that I need to use the bathroom.”

“For future reference, is twenty minutes the average amount of time you spend in there? I just want to know how long I should wait before I check on you.”

A beat. Then: “Yes. It is.”

“Fair enough.” Deacon cleared his throat, shifted slightly in his spot on the floor. “It’s your turn, by the way.”

* * *

Bishop spent the rest of the afternoon picking through the surrounding area with Dogmeat at her side. Deacon had offered to come along, but she declined, stating that someone should stay on the off-chance Old Man Stockton showed up early. 

After a few hours of finding nothing worth toting around, she finally came across a toolbox in the back of a utility truck. The box contained an unused roll of duct tape, a handful of screws and nails, and a rusty wrench. She packed it all into her backpack before heading back to the church. 

Deacon sat playing solitaire, though he looked up as she and Dogmeat came closer. “How was your adventure?”

“Hardly an adventure, but it was fine. Found some stuff.” She sat down on the pew. Dogmeat parked himself between her feet, half of his body underneath the pew. “It’s almost time, huh?”

“Looks like it. Nervous that the package won’t like you?” He gave her a shit-eating grin. 

She scowled. Making fun of her slight insecurity wouldn’t slide with her. “Do you have any friends, Deacon? Do people actually _like_ you?”

He inhaled with a hiss. “Damn. That hurt a little bit.”

“Well, I’m just not going to take anything sitting down,” she said with a shrug. It was not unreasonable to want to be treated nicely, she thought. 

He aimed a finger-gun at her. “I like that.”

She rolled her eyes and resigned herself to silence for the remainder of the wait. 

Old Man Stockton showed up at eight o’clock on the dot; Bishop had been keeping a close eye on the clock on her Pip-Boy. Standing behind Stockton was a young man dressed in tattered clothes. He wrung his hands nervously as the pair entered. 

Deacon sat up from his completely horizontal position on one of the pews and looked over the back of the seat at the two of them. “Do you have a Geiger counter?”

“Mine’s in the shop,” Stockton replied.

Bishop found the exchange strange and, frankly, unnecessary. They had just seen Stockton yesterday, and Deacon had already known him. Was the threat of being replaced by a synth that imminent?

Deacon stood up, signaled Bishop to follow him, and met them at the entrance. “Is this our package?”

“Sure is. Meet H2-22,” Stockton said, turning to the man behind him. “These agents will help escort you to your next destination.”

“I-is it almost over?” the man asked, his eyes darting across Bishop, Deacon, and Dogmeat. 

“Almost,” Stockton assured, and patted the man’s shoulder. “I’ll light the signal. The agent from Ticonderoga should be here soon.” He walked to the window by the entrance, the sill of which held a lantern. He pulled a matchbook from his trouser pocket, struck one to life, and lit the lantern. Then, he turned, tipped his hat, and left without another word. 

Bishop, unsure of what to do, looked to Deacon for guidance. Deacon gestured for the man to sit down, which he did and began tapping his fingers against the edge of his seat. Deacon went to stand in the doorway. 

After a few moments, Bishop went to stand next to Deacon. “What’s Ticonderoga? And why are we even here if there’s someone coming to get him?”

“Ticon is a safe-house.” Deacon leaned his shoulder against the doorjamb and crossed his arms. “It’s _pretty_ dangerous to travel through the city at night. We’re here to make sure H2 gets there safely.” 

“Is this... standard?” 

“Standard? Yeah, I guess so. Except for the fact that, at the moment, I have a partner.”

She looked over at him. “Do you usually do these things alone?”

Deacon cracked a grin. He held up his thumb and first two fingers. “Strike three.”

“How is that strike three?” she demanded, rounding on him. “I was asking about standard procedure—“

“Then, you asked about _me_. That’s strike three, Bish.”

She shook her head. “Fine, whatever. What happens now?”

“Not now. When we get to Ticon.” 

“What happens then?”

His grin widened. 

She sighed and rubbed her eyes. If traveling with him meant inane games, then she figured she would have to play along. Eventually, she would be able to do these types of missions on her own, which would allow her to explore the Commonwealth unhindered. 

When she looked at Deacon again a minute later, he was still grinning.

* * *

The agent met with them ten minutes after Stockton had left. He introduced himself as High Rise, and Bishop couldn’t help but smile at his sunny disposition. 

“Ticonderoga isn’t too far away,” High Rise said, falling into step with Bishop as they traveled down the street. Behind them, Deacon walked alongside H2-22 in silence. “Have you ever been there?”

Bishop shook her head. “No, I haven’t seen much of the ‘Wealth yet.”

“Ah, new to these parts, huh?”

She half-smiled. “Yeah, you could say that. I’ve been around here before, but it’s different than I remember.”

“Man, ain’t that a shame,” he said. “Come back, and everything’s changed—and not for the better, either, I bet.”

Bishop didn’t respond. She spent the majority of her time trying _not_ to think about just how different the world was now. To deal with it, she had worked tirelessly to improve her power armor. She told herself she belonged here, that she had been born and raised in the Commonwealth, that the Red Rocket was the only home she had ever had. 

In a way, though, the last part wasn’t exactly a lie. 

It was nearly ten-thirty by the time they reached the sturdiest skyscraper Bishop had seen yet. 

High Rise pushed open the door and gestured for the rest of the group to enter. “Ticonderoga is just the top three floors,” he explained to Bishop as the crossed the lobby. “We can take the elevator up.”

They circled around the stairs to the elevators behind. High Rise pressed the call button. 

It was strange to ride in an elevator, despite having done so several hundred times. Perhaps it was that electricity was such a rare commodity that she hadn’t expected any elevator would work. 

Upstairs, High Rise and H2-22 stepped out of the elevator. Bishop made to follow, but Deacon held out his arm in front of her. 

“There’s a room upstairs we can use,” Deacon said, reaching further past her to tap the button for the top floor. “The ones on this floor are usually reserved for synths.” He called out through the doors, “See ya, High Rise!”

“Later, Deacon!” High Rise called back. “Nice to meet you, Bishop!” 

“You, too!” Bishop said just before the doors closed. 

Deacon led Bishop and Dogmeat through the office space until they reached a corner office that, by some miracle, had all of its windows intact. There was one bed—which Deacon claimed by throwing his pack onto it before Bishop could even step foot inside—a desk, a table with two chairs, and a sofa kitty-cornered by the door. 

“If you’d prefer,” Deacon said, kicking off his boots, “there’s a nice-ish room right next door.”

“Ish?” Bishop asked, folding her arms over her stomach. 

He ducked his head as he brought his rifle over top of it. “It’s no corner office, but it’s fine.”

Bishop sighed and turned to leave. 

“Aren’t you curious about what happens after your third strike?” Deacon asked. 

She turned back to see him sitting halfway on the edge of the table, his fingers interlaced over his knee. She schooled her expression into one of complete disinterest. “Sure, I guess.”

He reached into the back pocket of his jeans and pulled out a folded slip of paper. He held it out to her. 

She squinted suspiciously at the paper, then at him. “What is that?”

He waved the paper enticingly. “Come find out.”

Bishop wanted to leave just to spite him—but her curiosity overruled that instinct. She closed the distance between them and took the paper. 

In neat, slanted handwriting that she wouldn’t have expected of him, the note read: _You can’t trust everyone_.

Bishop’s eyes grazed over the words a few times as she attempted to decipher why he would give this to her. After moments of silence, she finally said, “The hell is this?”

“This,” he said, settling fully onto the tabletop, “is my recall code.”

She blinked several times. “I’m not following.”

“Remember when we were going to the Switchboard, and you asked if you could have met a synth and not even known it?”

Her chin lifted as she understood. “You’re a synth?”

He nodded. “Surprised?”

She felt _something_ , but surprise wasn’t it. “I have absolutely no feelings toward this. Should I be surprised?”

Deacon laughed. 

She regarded the note again— _you can’t trust everyone_. “If I can’t trust everyone, then I can’t trust you. Should I even believe you?”

He stopped laughing. “Calling me a liar, Bish?”

“Well, you certainly don’t tell the truth.”

“Oh, yeah? How do you know?”

“You’re a good liar,” she allowed, “but you lied pretty easily to Desdemona about how much I helped at the Switchboard. Would she have let me work with the Railroad if she knew that all I did during the mission was let you do everything? I mean, if you can lie like that to your boss, someone who apparently trusts you a whole hell of a lot... well, what’s to stop you from lying to someone you’ve just met?”

As she spoke, his mouth had shifted slowly into a smile. “Wow.”

“Am I wrong?”

He avoided the question. “What’s your verdict, then? Am I human or a synth?”

Bishop held out the paper. “I’m not entirely sure if you’re human, Deacon, but I know you’re not a synth.”

He cocked his head to the side. “What’s stopping you from reading it out loud?”

Her cheek twitched; she didn’t know. “Do you want me to?”

“Aren’t you curious to find out the truth?”

“If you were telling the truth,” she said, “you wouldn’t want me to say it.”

He simply grinned. 

She hesitated before asking, “What would happen if you were a synth?”

“I would deactivate. Freeze in place. It would be _really_ creepy.”

“And that’s it? No way to reactivate you?”

He shrugged. 

“You know what?” She crumpled the paper in her fist and flicked it at him. “I don’t wanna know.”

The grin fell from his face. “You don’t?”

“Nope.” She turned and headed for the door, where Dogmeat waited patiently. 

“You’re kidding.”

“Nope.” She stepped into the main office space, turned back with her hand on the doorknob. “Goodnight, Deacon.” 

Deacon scoffed. “Y’know, I think this is the most you’ve said since—“

She closed the door before he could finish.


	8. Ghouls Incoming

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ahhhh, I’m so sorry for the long absence! I’ve been busy with work and I kind of lost my inspiration for a while there. trying to get it back is proving to be pretty difficult, but I’m working on it. I hope you enjoy the update!

When they got back to HQ a couple of days later, Drummer Boy informed Bishop that Desdemona had requested a private meeting with Bishop. Deacon, obviously, was not invited. 

Desdemona had a small office space deeper in the tunnels, blocked off by a pale green curtain. Desdemona gestured for Bishop to sit on the other side of the small desk, and Bishop did. Dogmeat sat as well, as if he were an equal part of the meeting. 

Desdemona looked over papers scattered across her desk. She didn’t speak for a while. Bishop knee this was an intimidation tactic; she hated that it was working. 

Finally, Desdemona looked up from her work and regarded Bishop coolly. “So,” she said, leaning back in her seat, “you and Deacon got the synth to Ticonderoga safely.”

“Yes,” Bishop replied. 

Desdemona nodded absently, her eyes wandering away from Bishop. “It’s strange that Deacon went with you. He usually works alone.”

Bishop’s gut gave a little jerk. “Maybe because I’m new?”

“I’ve never seen him team up with a rookie before, but I guess there’s a first time for everything, right?” Desdemona gave a small smile that Bishop did not return. “But, anyway, how did it go?”

Bishop shrugged. There was nothing really worth mentioning, so she said, “It was fine.”

Desdemona’s smile widened slightly. “You’re a woman of few words—fair enough! I won’t keep you. Just know that I’m pleased with your work, Bishop.”

“Thank you.”

“I know Deacon’s been listening outside, so could you send him in on your way out?”

“Sure.” Fighting the urge to sigh, Bishop pushed herself up with the arms of the chair. “Thanks again.”

Desdemona waved a hand, effectively dismissing Bishop.

When Bishop and Dogmeat stepped out of the curtained room, Deacon was not immediately visible. They turned a corner, and there he was, leaning against the wall, examining his fingernails in the low light of a lantern hanging on the wall opposite him. 

“Oh, Bishop!” he exclaimed. “Didn’t know you were with Dez.”

“So, you’re just hanging out in the catacombs for no reason?” Bishop asked, not even bothering to stop. 

Deacon didn’t follow her. His voice only got louder to accommodate the growing distance between them. “Cant a guy just _casually_ skulk in the catacombs? Jeez.”

“Weirdo,” she said over her shoulder. 

“Yeah? Well... can’t argue with that.”

Bishop snorted and continued into HQ proper. 

Having nothing else to do, she weaved through to get to the stairs leading out. She was stopped by Drummer Boy, lounging across his usual step. 

“Oh! Bishop!” He sounded surprised, and she wondered why. “Going somewhere?”

“Just wanted to get some fresh air while I wait for what’s next.”

He popped to his feet, nearly knocking Bishop backwards with the suddenness of it. “If you’re going out, then lemme show you something.”

She tilted her head to the side. “What is it?”

“It’s a surprise.” He winked. 

Unfazed, she repeated: “What is it?”

“You’re no fun, are you?”

She just stared at him. 

“Well, that’s fine. I was just going to show you something I did for you. But, if you don’t want to see it...” He shrugged. 

Her eyes narrowed. 

“I’ll show you. C’mon.” He jogged up the stairs, leaving her and Dogmeat to catch up. 

Drummer Boy led them upstairs, to the church’s balcony where Bishop had slept not too long ago. In the corner of the balcony, near the hole in the ceiling, were swaths of dark purple cloth. Drummer Boy pulled a curtain aside so Bishop could take a look inside. In the center of the small, cozy space sat a cast iron basin filled with fresh firewood that had not been there before. Pushed into the very corner, where there was only bare wall, was a cot, made up with a pillow and a thick wool blanket. 

“What’s all this?” Bishop asked, looking at Drummer Boy. 

“Deacon mentioned you slept up here your first night, since it’s more quiet than downstairs,” Drummer Boy explained. “So, while you were gone, I thought I’d spruce it up a little. Make it a little nicer—and warmer, since it’s January and all. Speaking of which”—he pointed upward—“I fixed the hole.”

Bishop’s gaze followed his finger. A beige tarp covered the hole in the ceiling. “You... really didn’t have to do all of this.”

“I know,” he said. “But, I felt like doing something nice.”

Bishop couldn’t help the itch of suspicion that crawled up the back of her neck. “Well, thanks.”

Drummer Boy grinned. “No problem. Why don’t you go in? See if you like it.”

Bishop stepped inside the small space, as did Dogmeat. She set her backpack against the foot end of the cot and sat down. 

It was pleasantly dark. She had to admit that she liked it. With the shelter of the curtains, lighting a fire wouldn’t be an issue in terms of being spotted by undesirables. But, to make sure, she looked up—and there was a gap at the top of the tent to let the smoke out. She was glad he had the foresight to make sure she didn’t suffocate. 

“What do you think? Too small?”

Though she was still suspicious of his intentions, she did appreciate the gesture. “It’s great.”

He beamed. “Great! So... um, I’ll leave you to it, I guess. See you later.”

“Later.”

He let the curtain fall, and Bishop and Dogmeat were alone in the near-darkness. 

Dogmeat came to sit before Bishop and laid his head in her lap with a sigh.

“This is nice, isn’t it,” she murmured, scratching his cheeks. “But, I never thought I’d live in a church.” She smiled at him, but it didn’t last long. 

This wasn’t her home, though. Her home was miles away, in the back room of a Red Rocket. If she wasn’t desperately needed here, she decided that she would pay Codsworth a visit. 

That begged the question: Did she have to inform them if she left? Or, could she just... go?

She struck up a low fire as she thought about it. The makeshift room grew cozily warm. She found herself lying down on the cot. It was a far cry from her bed at the Red Rocket—but with the warmth of the fire, the closeness of the curtains... 

Before she knew it, she was asleep.

* * *

Someone shook Bishop’s shoulder. With a swift movement, she yanked Deliverer out from underneath her pillow and clicked off the safety. She jammed it forward, the barrel nosing into a firm body.

The intruder gasped. “ _Bish_. It’s me, Deacon.”

Bishop’s eyes adjusted to the dimness and saw it was, in fact, Deacon. She pulled the pistol away from his stomach. “What the fuck are you doing?”

Deacon’s hand clutched the place where her pistol had been. “New dead drop. I wanted to know if you’d come with me.”

“Where is it?”

“Near the old Cambridge police station. It’s a _bit_ of a walk, so I thought some company would be nice.”

She hadn’t had a chance to pick through that area. There was bound to be some good stuff at a police station, though, right? 

But, she was skeptical of his motivations. “You want my company?”

“Or Dogmeat’s.” He shrugged. “I’m not picky.”

She stared at him. “Get out of my room.”

“Your—oh!” He looked around, though there wasn’t much to look at. “This is real nice, Bish. When did you do this?”

“Drummer Boy actually...” She trailed off, shaking her head. “You know what? Doesn’t matter, because you’re leaving.”

“Drum—okay, okay.” Deacon stepped over Dogmeat, sidestepped the fire pit, and backed out of the room. When the curtains closed him out, he continued, “So, are you coming or what?”

“Uh, fine. Sure.”

“Great. We’ll leave in the morning.” He poked his head through the curtains. A cheeky grin spread across his face. “Color me curious, though. If Drummer Boy was here earlier, I wonder why he didn’t mention the dead drop, huh?”

She didn’t dignify that with a response.

* * *

“The dead drop should be...” Deacon drew out the last word for several seconds as he searched about for a mailbox behind the police station. 

Bishop made it seem like she was helping look for the mailbox, but she was really poking around the rubble for hidden gems. She didn’t expect to find anything but figured it was worth a try. 

“Found it!” 

Bishop turned to find Deacon pushing rocks and broken bricks off of a half-buried mailbox. He uncovered the slot, reaching inside just as rapid-fire shots rang out. 

Bishop dropped to a knee, keeping her head low between her shoulders. Her fingers wrapped around the bandana tied around Dogmeat’s neck and yanked him down with her. 

Across from her, Deacon had also dropped to a crouch, his rifle already clutched in his hands. 

“Brotherhood, fall back!” a man’s voice hollered on the other side of the station. “Ghouls incoming!”

Bishop skittered across the broken ground, rocks digging painfully into her palms and knees. She pressed her back to the mailbox, and Dogmeat pushed into her side. “What the hell is the Brotherhood?”

“Doesn’t matter,” Deacon said, leaning next to her. “If there are ferals, we need to—“

A bloodcurdling scream cut him off.

“They’re dying in there,” Bishop said, her heartbeat pumping in her throat. 

Deacon didn’t say anything. He only looked at her, his fingers tightening around his gun. 

They stared at each other for approximately five seconds before Bishop got up without thinking and ran around the side of the building.

“Bishop, _no_!”

The guttural snarls of feral ghouls made her skid to a halt just before she turned the corner. She unholstered Deliverer and clicked off the safety. 

Peeking around the corner, she saw—nothing. A makeshift wall, about ten feet high blocked her view. She edged around it, Deliverer up, ready to pull the trigger. 

She came to an abrupt stop at the sight of a herd of ferals sprinting toward a gap in the wall. She aimed Deliverer and shot one down. Thanks to the silencer and the open space, the shot didn’t draw their attention. She pulled the trigger five more times. On the sixth shot, a brown-and-black blur darted ahead, growling wildly. Dogmeat leapt at one and forced it to the ground, ripping at its throat with his teeth. 

“Oh, shit, oh, fuck.” She emptied the rest of the magazine, bringing down four more. 

Something came up beside her, causing her to swing the butt of the pistol toward it. Deacon grunted when she struck him in the arm. 

“Jeez, Bish!” He raised the rifle, pulled the trigger, and the last of of the ferals’ head exploded. “We need to—“

“Get inside,” Bishop finished for him, moving toward the gap. 

He looked over at her. “That’s not—“

There was a very familiar sound, one Bishop had been aching to hear for months: the sound of power armor moving about. A set of it came through the wall, piloted by a man with dark hair pushed back from his forehead. Why he wasn’t wearing a helmet, Bishop couldn’t say. 

His head swiveled toward them, and a strange-looking rifle held in the hefty metallic grasp of the armor. “Halt, civilians!”

Bishop froze, but her eyes scanned the armor to discern precisely what model it was. After a few moments, she recognized it as model T-60, a slightly hardier model than the one she stored at the Red Rocket. 

“Did you kill these ghouls?” he asked.

“She did,” Deacon said, gesturing to Bishop. 

“He helped,” Bishop said. She pointed at Dogmeat, who stood defensively in front of her, his muzzle stained dark red. “So did he.”

“Well, the help is certainly appreciated,” the man said, “but you may want to step inside these walls. Where there’s a herd of abominations like this one, more are sure to come, especially since this fight made some noise.” 

Bishop glanced at Deacon, but his gaze was trained presumably on the man. 

“Ah, shit,” Deacon breathed. Then, loud enough for the man to hear: “Who are you, exactly?”

“Paladin Danse of the Brotherhood of Steel,” the man said, but his focus was not on them at the moment. He seemed to be scanning the surrounding area. “For the time being, Danse is fine.”

“What do we do?” Bishop murmured to her companion. 

Deacon frowned. “Well, _look_ at the guy. That’s a fucking _laser rifle_. And, if more ferals are on the way, this might be the only option we have.”

She looked toward Danse. “Do you have ten-millimeter rounds? I’m running low.” 

“Inside, ma’am,” Danse said with a nod. 

Bishop started forward. After a beat, Deacon followed.


	9. Absolutely, I Can

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *clanging two pots together* come get y’all’s juice! 
> 
> I’m really excited to write the fake marriage trope! It’s one of my faves and I hope I do it justice. I also wanted to post another chapter without the usual 2-week wait since it’s been so long since I’ve been updating relatively regularly. 
> 
> One more thing! If you like video games (which I’m assuming you do if you’re reading this fic) and memes, you can find me on tumblr! I’m campsearchlight there as well. 
> 
> Thanks for reading! Love you guys ✌🏼

Once they weaved through the scattering of bodies—feral and human alike—Danse pointed at a cluster of army-green ammunition boxes sitting behind a short wall of sandbags on the wide stoop of the station. “Check inside those, ma’am. Should be at least one case.”

“Thank you.” Bishop kneeled down beside the boxes and began a quick search. 

“I’d hate to keep referring to you as civilians,” Danse said to Deacon, who turned away from the opening in the wall to look up at the paladin. “Is there something else I can call you?”

“Oh, please excuse my rudeness,” Deacon said, casually leaning against the sandbags. “I’m John Sinclair, and this is my wife, Allison.”

 _Wife_? 

There was a strange tingle on the back of Bishop’s neck, which she shook off, not wanting to linger on it while she was supposed to be preparing for another fight. 

“Pleased to meet you both,” Danse said, reaching out his heavily-armored hand, “though I wish it were under different circumstances.”

Deacon chuckled and shook Danse’s hand. He cast a look over his shoulder at Bishop. She wanted to smash those stupid sunglasses so the looks he gave her weren’t so goddamn enigmatic. 

Bishop decided that the tingle was the growing contempt she had for him. She reloaded her pistol in a needlessly aggressive manner, stuffed a fistful of bullets into the right pocket of her windbreaker, and then stashed the rest of the box in a side pocket of her backpack. Surely, they wouldn’t miss one box of ten-millimeter rounds. 

“Do you two spend a lot of time in the wasteland?” Danse was asking Deacon as Bishop moved to the opposite wall of sandbags so the men weren’t standing in her way. “Seems like a dangerous place for nice folks such as yourselves.”

“We spend more time out here than I would like,” Deacon said, convincingly regretful. “We mostly scavenge. You know. Try to make caps wherever we can. We hoped we could settle down somewhere soon, maybe start a family—but it’s hard out here, and the Commonwealth doesn’t discriminate.”

Bishop glanced at him, her eyes narrowed. He was a _really_ smooth liar. 

Danse nodded as if he, too, knew the struggle of surviving in the Commonwealth. Judging by the artillery the other members of the Brotherhood carried and their official-looking, matching orange jumpsuits, Bishop wasn’t so sure it was as difficult for them. 

“Paladin Danse!” someone yelled from the battlements. “More ghouls!” 

“Eyes up, everyone!” Danse called out, bounding across the yard to stand guard at the opening. “Hold your positions, and we’ll make it through this!”

Deacon stepped around the sandbags and took a knee, letting the barrel of his rifle rest across the top. He gave her one of his two-fingered salutes. “Good luck, Mrs. Sinclair.”

Bishop snorted and aligned her sights just to the right of Danse. “Same to you, Mr. Sinclair.”

Moments later, ferals swarmed the opening. A few of them took running leaps at Danse and clung to him, growling and snarling as they tried in vain to get through the thick plates of his armor. It was easy for Bishop and Deacon to pick them off with Danse providing a decent blockade. 

Three of them managed to get past him. Bishop landed a miraculous headshot on one, Dogmeat took down another, and the last got zapped to ash by a red laser from a soldier on the battlements just before it reached the steps leading to the station. 

The snarling died down after a long while. Bishop didn’t get to her feet until Danse gave the all-clear and began walking toward them.

Deacon moved swiftly to Bishop and took her face in his rough hands. His mouth was set in a slight frown. “You okay?”

“What the hell are you doing?” she hissed, fighting the urge to knock his hands away. 

“Making my bullshit look believable,” he replied, and placed a weirdly tender kiss to her forehead. Then, to her even greater surprise, he pulled her in for a firm embrace. 

With her face pressed into his pale blue sweater that smelled of sweat and dirt, Bishop’s eyes closed of their own accord. And, for the first time in years, she let herself be held. 

“Glad to see you’re both uninjured,” Danse said as he drew closer. “Also glad to see you can really handle yourselves in a fight. I have to admit: I was a little worried.”

Deacon pulled back from Bishop but left his right arm draped across her shoulders. “We’ve had a bit of practice.”

Danse half-smiled. “Why don’t you two go inside? Have yourselves a rest while we clean up out here and make sure we’re okay for now. There’s even a working percolator in the break room, if you feel so inclined.”

They didn’t have to be asked twice. Deacon opened the door and gestured for Bishop to go in first. 

Daylight filtered into the lobby of the station through dirty windows. Deacon led the way around busted chairs in the waiting area, and they searched the back hallways for the aforementioned break room. 

“Have a seat, dear wife,” Deacon said, pulling out a chair from one of the small, round tables. “I’ll get the coffee started.”

Bishop rolled her eyes and pulled out a different chair. “You can knock that off.”

“Hm. No.” He went to the percolator and peeked inside the water well. “What if I slip up in front of Paladin Danse?”

“Does it matter? Are we ever going to see him again after this?”

“Maybe you’re still not used to the ‘Wealth,” he said, looking through the various containers on the counter. “You see, I’ve already spun an intricate web of lies. If we get caught in them, we could—I dunno—come down with a case of bullets in our brains, which doesn’t sound that great to me, personally.”

“An intricate web of lies,” she echoed. “You really think these people would do that to us? They kinda remind me of Pre-War military.”

Deacon’s preparations stuttered. “What do you know about Pre-War military, Allison? I know I said you’re hard to figure out, but I certainly never thought you would be a history buff.”

Bishop’s upper lip curled back. “I’m not. I just know enough to notice the similarities. And that’s not my name.”

He flipped a switch on the percolator and turned around, leaning against the edge of the countertop. “What _is_ your name?”

“Bishop. Or, is your memory actually starting to go?”

He grinned as the percolator started to gurgle. “Right. I guess I just got so swept up in the fantasy that I forgot for a minute.” 

She leaned back in her seat, shaking her head. “You’re so weird, _John_.”

“So I’ve been told.” He set a clean coffee mug in front of her and another across from her. He took the seat he had pulled out before. “I hope you know this is incredibly stupid, though.”

“What is?”

“Us. Being here.”

“Why?”

“Really? You don’t understand why interacting with people enough for them to remember you is a bad thing in our line of work?”

 _Oh_. “I get it now.”

He shook his head.

“Maybe you shouldn’t have given him a name.”

“And what, exactly, was I supposed to tell him when he asked what to call us, _Allison_? Civilian One and Civilian Two? Do you think that would’ve sounded less suspicious?”

She drew in a breath, held it for a few seconds, then released it slowly. “Is the coffee ready yet?”

“Nope.”

They sat in silence for the next few minutes until the percolator clicked, indicating that the coffee could be served. He retrieved it, poured some out for each of them, and sat back down. 

Bishop held the steaming mug with both hands, grateful for the heat transferring into her frozen fingers. Deacon left his mug untouched, his arms folded over his stomach. However, when they heard heavy footsteps approaching, his posture quickly shifted into something less standoffish. He took up his mug and sipped at it. 

Danse entered the room, out of his power armor. He wore the same orange jumpsuit as his fellow Brotherhood. “Smells a lot better in here than it does out there. Is there any coffee left?”

“Yeah, I think just enough for one mug,” Deacon responded. 

“That’ll do.” Danse poured himself a cup and turned to them. “Do you mind if I join you?”

“Not at all,” Bishop replied, not wanting to tell him outright to go away. 

Danse sat with a low groan. Bishop knew that feeling intimately—the feeling of sitting down after being cooped up in power armor for an extended period of time. It hurt, but at the same time, it was a huge relief. 

“So, I have something I’d like to ask you both.” Danse rubbed the back of his neck. “It’s a little strange.”

Surreptitiously, Bishop examined the set of Deacon’s mouth, hoping it would give _something_ away. It didn’t. 

“Shoot,” Deacon said. 

“Lately, we’ve been having trouble contacting our chapter—that is, of the Brotherhood. But, one of our Knights says there is a deep-range transmitter inside a place called ArcJet Systems, a ways northeast from here. It could help us greatly.” He smiled hesitantly. 

“So, what’s your question?” Bishop prompted. 

“If you’re willing,” Danse said, his gaze switching between them, “I could use some more help getting there and retrieving it. We lost a few too many people today for me to bring any of the survivors.” 

“I have to ask what’s in it for us,” Deacon said. “I hope you understand.”

“Of course, of course. You’ll be compensated with a sum of two hundred and fifty caps.”

“Between the two of us or each?”

“Each.”

Bishop wondered briefly how much copper wire she could purchase with just one hundred caps. “That’s... a proposition.”

“We’ll have to think about it,” Deacon said. 

“Absolutely,” Danse said, nodding. “It’s not exactly _pressing_ , but I’d like to go within the next few days.” 

“We’ll... we’ll get back to you tomorrow morning.”

Danse lifted a hand. “Take your time. Like I said, there’s no rush.”

They finished their coffee in relative silence. Danse offered them a room to stay in, but Deacon politely declined, saying they had a safe place nearby. They said farewell, and then they went to finally collect the dead drop.

* * *

Deacon sat on a dilapidated couch, hugging his knees to his chest. “This is possibly the dumbest thing I have ever even considered doing. Dez is gonna lose her mind when I tell her all about it.”

“The caps, though,” Bishop said, wiping a damp rag over Dogmeat’s face. He sat patiently and accepted the help. “And the package doesn’t have to be picked up for another week anyway. We have a lot of time to kill.”

Deacon was shaking his head slowly as she spoke. “Caps would definitely be nice... I can’t remember the last time I had some walkin’-around money.”

Bishop folded the rag once and resumed cleaning. “So...”

“So,” Deacon said, a sly grin spreading across his face, “if I were to agree, the question I have for you is: Do you think you can fake being married to me?”

It took too long for Bishop to consider, but she really didn’t know if she could keep up what was sure to be an exhausting act. 

“Man, I hoped you could,” he said with a sigh when she didn’t respond. “I know you’re still technically a recruit, but you should be able to change who you are like _that_.” He snapped his fingers. 

Her shoulders rolled back indignantly. She would not give him the satisfaction of knowing she couldn’t perform such a simple task. “I can do it.” She raised her eyebrow in a challenge. “Can you?”

He placed his boots flat on the dingy carpet and leaned forward, his elbows resting on his knees. He laced his fingers, the pads of his thumbs pressed together. “Oh, Bishop,” he purred, smirking in a way that made Bishop swallow hard. “Abso _lutely_ , I can.”


	10. Distracted by the Teddies

“So, are you two from around here?” Danse asked as they walked. Locked away in power armor and finally with a standard T-60 helmet on, his voice was staticky through the helmet’s air filter. He led the procession, his laser rifle held in his hands. 

“Born and raised,” Deacon replied. “Allison and I grew up right in Diamond City.”

Bishop didn’t try to help with the fabrication of their backstory; Deacon was better at this than she was, and he seemed to already have an answer for everything. 

“Diamond City, huh? I haven’t had the chance to visit yet.”

“Oh, it’s a sight to behold. But, when you do, you _have_ to try the noodles. Takahashi is a genius. Allison practically lives off those noodles. Right, sweetheart?”

“Can’t get enough of ‘em,” Bishop said, watching Dogmeat as he strayed off the road to sniff at a rusted-over fire hydrant. The pet-names were a little too much, she had to admit, but she wasn’t in a place to tell him to stop. 

“What about you, Danse? Where are you from?”

“Down south,” Danse said. “A place called the Capital Wasteland. It’s not much different from here. Maybe a little scarier.”

Bishop’s interest was piqued. “The Capital Wasteland?”

“The ruins of Washington D.C. You know where that is?”

She did. Over two hundred years ago, Bishop was born there—though she wasn’t Bishop back then. “Never heard of it.”

“Once upon a time, it was the capital city of the United States of America,” Danse explained. “I grew up on a repurposed aircraft carrier that they called Rivet City.”

She found it difficult to imagine D.C. any other way than the pristine face of the country. “You said it’s scarier down there? How?” 

“Well, it’s still a city, so it’s very... closed-in. You turn a corner, and you’ll almost certainly come face-to-face with a super mutant.” 

Deacon whistled lowly. “We have super mutants in the Boston area, but it sounds like it’s not as bad as down there.”

The men swapped stories of super mutant encounters they had had while Bishop and Dogmeat kept lookout. Danse’s sounded believable; Deacon’s sounded slightly less so, but Danse didn’t mention anything about it. 

The party arrived at ArcJet Systems just as the sun reached its highest point. They headed across a parking lot cluttered with beat-up husks of cars and stopped before the massive double doors leading inside the main building. 

Danse turned his back on the doors to face them. “A few things before we go in. In there, I need you to follow my orders. What I say, goes. Is this understood?”

Bishop nodded as Deacon said, “Sure thing.”

“Good. And, um...” Danse looked down at Dogmeat, whose tail began wagging. “Is he going to be able to follow precise orders?”

“I haven’t had any problems with him yet,” Bishop said, “but I think he might only follow _my_ orders.”

“That should be fine.” He nodded once. “Do you have any questions for me?”

“What do you want us to do in there?” Deacon asked. “The job seems a little easy for two-fifty.”

“Just keep an eye out for danger, watch my back, and help me look for the transmitter. You’re mainly here for backup. You know, in case things get hairy. That’s all.” 

Suspicion narrowed Bishop’s eyes. “Do you think there are things in there that could kill us?”

“It’s best for us to not rule anything out, Mrs. Sinclair.” With that, he turned and pulled open the door.

The lobby was a disaster area: broken furniture tossed about the room; a dark-brown substance splattered against the wall behind the reception desk; a skeleton propped on a chair in the corner, a closed bottle grasped in its hand. 

“Huh.” Deacon took the bottle from the skeleton as Danse moved further into the room. The skeleton shifted, and everything below the elbow clattered to the floor. He unscrewed the cap and sniffed. He recoiled with an “Ooh, _pungent_.” He closed it up and showed it to Bishop. “Treat for later?”

She scoffed and shook her head. No way in hell was she drinking anything stronger than a beer with Deacon—and even a beer was questionable. 

His eyebrow raised. “What do you say, Allison?”

Then, she remembered what she was supposed to be doing. “Um, sounds good... babe.”

He smirked. It took a bit of calculated shoving to fit the bottle into his too-full backpack. Once it was safely zipped inside, he looked toward Danse. “Where to, Danse?”

“Toward the back, I’m assuming,” Danse said. “Unfortunately, my squad and I haven’t had the chance to scout this place out, so I’m not exactly sure of the layout.” 

“We have time to explore, then.” Deacon strode past Danse and pushed open a door behind reception. 

A bad move on his part. 

Something on the ground shifted—and got to its feet. A familiar, tinny voice said, “Hostile lifeforms detected.”

Dogmeat went low to the ground, his hackles raising. A low, continuous growl emanated from him. 

Deacon backpedaled, nearly colliding with Danse. “Uh... _Danse_?”

“Mr. Sinclair, behind me,” Danse said, lifting his laser rifle and moving forward into the hallway. “Keep the dog back, too.”

“Dogmeat, stay,” Bishop said, lowly, as Deacon retreated to her side. 

She looked up at him and attempted to convey one thought: _What are synths doing here?_

He shook his head almost imperceptibly, whispered, “Later,” and then focused on the red flashes coming from the back hallway. 

“All clear!” Danse shouted. When they joined him in the hallway, he aimed a kick at the metal frame of a fallen synth. “You folks ever seen these things before?”

“No, sir, we have not,” Deacon lied. “They’re kinda... _really_ creepy. What do you think they are?”

“Not sure...” Danse huffed. “Well, no use wondering about it now. Let’s keep going.” 

They searched through the offices in the back and decided to go down to the bottom level when they came up empty. Because of the weight limit in the seemingly-working elevator, Danse took the stairs. Bishop, Deacon, and Dogmeat piled into the elevator in order to scout ahead. 

There were more offices downstairs, but none of them contained anything close to the description of the transmitter that Danse had given them. 

“Hey, look, Bish,” Deacon said from within a cubicle. 

Bishop exited her own cubicle that only had a moldy notepad resting on the desk top. She poked her head around the corner. Deacon sat in the office chair, chuckling into his hand. On the desk in front of him were two teddy bears in a scandalous pose. One of them even had a cigarette taped to its paw. 

“Real nice, Deacon,” Bishop said, rolling her eyes. 

“See, it looks like they’re—wait... Wait! I didn’t do this!”

“Yeah, sure. Okay.” She straightened up and glanced around. “He sure is taking his time coming down here.”

“I didn’t do that, Bish. I found them like—“

“I believe you.” She didn’t. “I think we should check on Danse.” 

“He’s practically immortal with that armor. He’ll catch up. He told us to keep going, remember?”

Bishop hesitated.

“Besides, if he dies, we get to bring back that power armor for Tink.” Deacon smiled and walked into the next room. 

Tinker Tom _had_ mentioned wanting a set of power armor... 

“Look at those,” Deacon said when she joined him, pointing to the right. 

Metal doors with chipped white paint stood at the end of the hallway. Beside them was a keypad backlit with red light. 

“Looks like we need a keycard,” Bishop said. “Did you find anything while you were looking?”

He rubbed the back of his neck. “I got distracted by the teddies.”

Bishop groaned and trudged back into the office space. 

As she searched more thoroughly, the clunking of power-armored footsteps sounded by the stairs. She breathed a sigh of relief. How bad would it have looked if the rest of Danse’s people found her clomping around the ‘Wealth in his power armor? 

“Sinclairs?” Danse called out. 

“In here, Danse!” Bishop called back. 

Danse found her in one of the cubicles, rifling through a desk drawer containing nothing but paperclips and pens. “Find anything down here?”

“Uh, no, not yet,” she said, closing one of the drawers and opening the next one, “but there are some doors in the next room that we need a keycard to get through.”

“Ah. Well, I’m glad you’re both here to... Where is Mr. Sinclair?”

“He should be... somewhere.” Bishop straightened and carefully stepped up on the rolling chair. She opened her mouth to call for Deacon, but luckily, she said, “John?” instead. 

Deacon’s voice came from a cubicle in the corner. “I think I found a keycard.”

Bishop led Danse to the doors, with Deacon joining them a few moments later. He slid a small plastic rectangle along the side of the keypad. Nothing happened. 

“Flip it around,” Bishop said, peering over his shoulder. 

He did and slid it again. “What the—?”

“Gimme that.” Bishop made a grab for it, but he kept it out of her reach. 

“I got it, sweetheart.” 

Her brow furrowed. “Looks like you’re having some trouble, babe.”

“I got it,” he insisted, flipping the card a different way. This time, a buzzer sounded, and the red light turned green. “See? Told ya.” He pushed open the door before it locked again. 

“Nice work,” Danse commented. “I’ll take point here.”

Danse switched on the helmet’s headlamp as they stepped onto a metal landing. He looked over the side of the railing. The light didn’t reach the bottom. “Watch your step, folks,” he said. “Looks like a long drop.” 

Thick metal rods held a titanic piece of machinery upright in the center of the wide, cylindrical room. it looked like turbine, only absolutely gargantuan. Stairs circled down and around the circumference of the room.

Dogmeat whined and nosed the side of Bishop’s thigh. 

She patted his head. “It’s okay, boy.”

Deacon looked over his shoulder. “What’s going on?”

“The metal grate probably doesn’t feel too nice on his feet,” Bishop guessed. 

“Are _you_ okay?”

Bishop forced a small smile. “Yeah, honey. I’m great.”

In the dim light, Deacon’s grin was just barely visible. He was enjoying this a little too much. 

They descended. At the bottom, the turbine was suspended at least fifty feet above their heads. Bishop told herself not to worry about it falling and crushing them to death. After all, if it were to fall, she was almost completely sure that it would have done so in the last couple of centuries. 

“You two check out that room over there,” Danse said, indicating an open doorway to their left. And then, he swept an arm across the mechanical debris cluttering the room they already occupied. “I’ll look around out here.”

Bishop, Deacon, and Dogmeat headed into the adjoining chamber without question. Missing the light provided by Danse, they each procured a flashlight to scope out the room. 

“What does the thing look like again?” Deacon asked. “‘Cause I have no idea what I’m looking at.”

She examined a console underneath a thick plexiglass window that allowed her to see Danse kicking around under the turbine. She turned to see Deacon poking at a pile of junk on one of the tables. “Well, that’s just trash, Deac.”

“Well, okay.” He straightened and gave her a shrug. “Then, help me help you.”

“It looks like a dish—a satellite dish. Should be kinda small... ish.” She held up her hands and judged a distance of about two feet. “Maybe about this—“

“Oh, no.” Deacon lurched past Bishop, bumping against her shoulder. “No, no, no—” 

She whirled back around. 

A small army of Gen-One synths sprinted in an orderly line down the stairs. Some vaulted over the railing. Most of those were destroyed upon impact. The others got up and closed in on Danse, who was spraying the room with red beams. It wasn’t enough; he was overcome in seconds. 

There was a brief moment in which neither of them moved. Bishop tried to tamp down the panic rising in her chest but was ultimately unsuccessful. 

Then, Deacon ran around the corner to the door. He shouted something unintelligible before shouting, “Shit! It won’t close!”

“What about Danse?” Though, as she spoke, Bishop scanned the console for some kind of panic button. She spotted a large red button labeled encased in glass. That could be _anything_. 

It was her best bet. 

“Fuck him!” Deacon hollered. “Close it!” 

Bishop flipped open the case and slammed her palm down on the button. 

The laboratory door clanged shut. A Klaxon alarm went off, and Bishop grunted at the sudden cacophony, covering her ears. 

Deacon ran back to her side, his wig now sideways. “Oh, man, oh, _fuck_.” 

Outside, the turbine roared to life. The sound grew louder and louder, and then her vision went white as the room burst into flames. 

Deacon grabbed Bishop by the elbow and yanked her down to the floor behind the console. He wrapped an arm around her shoulders and pulled her against his side. Whining like crazy, Dogmeat threw himself across Bishop’s legs. 

The trio stayed huddled together until the bright light died down and the alarm silenced. 

“Jesus... Christ,” Deacon panted, and slapped a hand to his cheek. “What the hell was that?”

Bishop shoved him away, gently pushed Dogmeat off of her, and stood. She peered into the turbine room. In the center was a faintly-glowing set of power armor. Charred synth bodies were littered around Danse. After a beat, he shifted and got to his feet. Then, a fine mist began spraying down the room. 

“Oh, my God, he’s alive,” she said, disbelief evident in her voice. “He’s fucking _alive_.”

Deacon stood up next to her and leaned his hands against the edge of the console. “Wow... I hope he didn’t hear me yell about how we should leave him for dead. That would suck.”

She snorted, just as the lab door swung open. They both jumped at the sound. Dogmeat bolted for it. He was out of view for a second and reappeared at Danse’s side, sniffing intently. 

If Dogmeat was okay out there, then they would be, too. Bishop jogged out to meet them. 

But, the heat hit her like she had run straight into a brick wall. The mist was, thankfully, water; it didn’t help the feeling of being suffocated, however. “Danse,” she choked out. “You... okay?” 

“I’m alright, Mrs. Sinclair,” Danse said. “Are you and Mr. Sinclair?”

She nodded and wiped sweat off her forehead with the back of her hand. “I’m sorry. I—I hit a button... by accident... and—“

“It’s okay.” His gaze shifted away from her as Deacon strolled casually out of the lab. “Mr. Sinclair. Doing alright?”

“Jeez, it’s hot!” Deacon said, fanning himself. “How about you? Nice and toasty?”

Silence hung in the stifling air for an uncomfortable moment. While Danse’s focus was on Deacon, Bishop gave her companion a look that she hoped said, _Are you fucking serious?_

“I’m alive,” Danse said, simply, before stomping toward the lab. “Did you happen to find the transmitter?”

“We didn’t really get a chance to look,” Bishop said, following him. As she passed Deacon, he fell into step beside her. 

Bishop was too busy picking apart the junk for treasures of her own to help look for the transmitter, and Deacon milled aimlessly about, shifting things around but not actively looking. Danse ended up finding his quarry in a locked cabinet that he bashed open with his plated fist.

“Some help we were,” Deacon muttered to Bishop. “I didn’t even fire off one shot.”

“Hey. Free caps,” she whispered back. 

He hid a laugh with an obvious cough.

* * *

Back at the station, Deacon poured the container of bottle caps onto the table and began counting them out in tens. “Not a bad haul, huh?”

Bishop scooped a small pile toward her to help count. “Not bad at all.”

They sat counting for a few minutes, during which Danse came and leaned his shoulder on the threshold of the break room. 

Bishop paused to look at him. “Do you need something, Danse?”

“I just wanted to say thanks again,” Danse said with a small smile, “and to extend an offer.”


	11. Kind of a Shitty Job

“You did _what_?!”

“It’s not as bad as it sounds, Dez,” Deacon said, leaning forward in his seat. “We gave him fake names, fake backstory—a whole production. He ate it all up.”

“What did you tell him?” she demanded. 

“That Bish and I are married—John and Allison Sinclair. Made that up right on the spot. I’m quite proud of my—“

“What else?”

“We’re scavengers from Diamond City. That’s it.”

Desdemona slumped down in her chair, a hand draped over her eyes. “And... what? You’re joining this—this Brotherhood of Steel now? For what? What good will that do?”

“For the good of the Railroad. Obviously.” 

“I’m still not hearing how, Deacon.”

“What’s your stance on guns? We’ve never had this conversation before, and I’m interested in—“

She dropped her hand and regarded him through narrowed eyes. “Guns? What kind of guns?”

“They have—wait for it— _laser guns_. And, according to our dear friend Paladin Danse, that’s not even the half of it.”

“It’s not?”

He grinned. “We could potentially get power armor from them.” 

Desdemona sat up quickly, her eyes wide. “Power armor? Really?” 

“ _Potentially_ ,” he stressed. 

Her eyes flicked between him and Bishop before settling on him again. “That could turn a whole lot of tables against the Institute.”

“That’s what we were thinking, too.”

Bishop wanted to interject that she hadn’t thought about the Institute at all, that everything after helping Paladin Danse strictly for the caps was all Deacon’s idea. Instead, she kept her mouth shut and let it play out. After all, she was eager to see if Desdemona let them do this—because, if it panned out the way she hoped it would, Bishop could get her hands on a plethora of parts, or even a brand-new set of armor. That alone was enough for her to want to accept Danse’s offer. 

Desdemona stared at Deacon for a few moments longer, and then her gaze slid over to Bishop, who leaned against the wall, observing. “You haven’t said anything, Bishop. What do you think?”

Deacon turned in his seat to look up at Bishop. 

“Um...” She wondered briefly if she should divulge her ability with power armor. When Desdemona cocked her head, waiting for an answer, Bishop finally said, “I think it could benefit us.”

Desdemona leaned back. “This is so fucking risky—I can’t even think of any words to describe how risky it is.”

“I know,” Deacon said. 

“And I would expect your focus to be on keeping your story convincing. So, no packages for a while.”

He nodded along. “Right, right.”

“So... can you handle being a double agent?”

He grinned. “Are you kidding me? I was born for _exactly_ this.” 

Were they really doing this?

“And you’ll need your... ‘wife.’” Her cool gaze shifted back to Bishop, and she waited. 

It seemed it was up to her to truly decide if they were doing this. 

She justified her answer with the knowledge that suspicion would rise if John Sinclair joined up without her; abandoning his wife to brave the harsh wasteland on her own would not look good. And she could lie—just as well as Deacon, if not better. 

“Yup,” Bishop said with a nod. 

“Alright, then.” Desdemona pushed herself to her feet, and Deacon stood as well. “I want to be updated via dead drop once a week. If there’s more than eight days without one, I’m crossing your names off the board.”

Bishop felt her eyebrows pull together. “What board?”

“ _The_ board? I’ll show you.” He glanced at Desdemona. “Is that it?”

“That’s it,” Desdemona confirmed. “You two be careful out there.”

“We always are.”

* * *

“This is the board,” Deacon said, gesturing broadly to a chalkboard mounted on the wall by the empty power armor frame. Since Bishop rarely entered HQ proper, she hadn’t noticed it. Written upon it was a column labeled _Agents_ : Glory, Deacon and then Bishop. Underneath Glory’s name was a too-large gap, there was a whitish splotch of erased chalk. “It helps us keep track of which agents we have.”

She held her gaze on the erased name. “So, if they don’t hear from us...?” 

“Can’t get ahold of someone? Name gets crossed off. After a couple of weeks, it just gets erased.” He tapped the empty space above his name. “That was Tommy Whispers.”

“Oh.” A ripple of sadness washed over her, and she leaned her shoulder on the wall next to the board. She looked toward Tinker Tom’s station, where he was leaned over his terminal, typing quickly. “This is kind of a shitty job, huh?”

Deacon laughed lowly, shaking his head. “It comes with its challenges, yeah. As you’ve already seen. I’m sure it’ll be the same with the Brotherhood, though. I hope you’re prepared enough for that.”

She looked down at her boots, dusty and scuffed. Dogmeat looked up at her, probably thinking she was looking at him. She half-smiled and continued, “I think you underestimate me.”

“Oh, yeah?”

She looked up at Deacon and found him a bit closer than he had been. “I think I’m a lot hardier than you think I am.”

He shook his head and turned around, beginning to walk away. “I haven’t once underestimated you, Bish,” he said over his shoulder, “I promise you that.”

* * *

It was an unseasonably warm night. Usually, her windbreaker on its own didn’t do much to block out the cold, but it was perfect protection tonight. 

She sat cross-legged on her cot and ate her modest dinner of BlamCo Mac and Cheese. Dogmeat lay halfway under the cot, chewing on some kind of small animal that he had hunted down as she waited for her meal to heat up. 

Just as she finished the last spoonful, Dogmeat’s incessant chewing stopped. His head lifted and cocked to the side. Someone was coming, but he was obviously not worried about it. 

“Hey, Bishop?” Drummer Boy’s voice filtered through the curtain. “You in here?”

Unconcerned, Dogmeat resumed chewing. 

She swallowed the bite of macaroni and set her dish aside. “Yeah. You can come in.”

The curtain parted, and Drummer Boy stepped inside. 

“What’s up?”

“Well,” he said, pushing his hands into the pockets of his jacket, “word downstairs is that you and Deacon are doing something pretty dangerous.”

“Uh... kind of,” she said with a shrug. “We just have to watch what we say and make sure we’re not followed back here. Shouldn’t be too hard.”

“Right, right.” He cleared his throat. “So, when are you guys going?”

“A few days, I think. Why?”

“Well, I was wondering if you wanted to come with me to drop off a dead drop near Diamond City. I figured it would take half a day to get there, then we’d spend the night and come right back here.” He smiled sheepishly. 

Bishop’s brain did not register why he would ask _her_. Surely, there were other, more experienced agents who could accompany him. “Is everyone else busy?”

“Huh? Oh. No, no, I—I just thought you’d like to come, is all. I overheard Deacon telling Tinker Tom about how you could use the, um—the sticks?—the _chop_ sticks at Power Noodles. So, I thought that must mean that you... like them. The noodles. Enough to figure how to use the chopsticks, anyway. So, since I’m going to spend the night there anyway, I thought I would invite you to come along.” 

Bishop had grown up using chopsticks for just about every meal. And she remembered her mother locking their everyday chopsticks in the family safe when they found out about Chinese internment camps popping up around the country. 

_But, we’re not Chinese, Mom. We’re Korean—we’re_ American, she had said, justifiable anger tinging her voice. 

_I know, sweetheart_ , her mother said, smiling sadly at a slightly younger Bishop, _but they don’t care enough to understand the difference_.

_Then, why are you locking them up?_

_Better safe than sorry._

Drummer Boy cut through the memory. “What do you think?”

She wondered briefly what it would be like to hang out with someone who seemed to genuinely want to show her a good time. Someone who wasn’t Deacon. 

Would she actually have a good time with Drummer Boy? It was worth a shot, wasn’t it? 

“That sounds nice,” she said. 

His face lit up. She would have to get used to seeing such an open expression compared to how hard it was to read Deacon. 

“Cool. So, um, we’ll leave around noon, if that’s okay with you.”

“That’s fine with me,” she agreed. 

His smile widened. “Great.” He took a couple of steps backward and stumbled over the hem of the curtain. He caught himself and straightened his jacket. “Ah! Yeah. Well, I’ll leave you alone now. Goodnight!”

She fought an amused smile that threatened to come up. “Goodnight.”

* * *

Drummer Boy ripped off a piece of duct tape with his teeth and stuck it to the holotape. He pulled open the slot and reached inside. There was a reverberating thud as he smacked the holotape somewhere within. 

“Is that it?” Bishop asked as the slot snapped shut. “You just leave it and go?”

“Mm-hmm! That’s all she wrote.” He smiled, hooking his thumbs around the straps of his backpack. “And now it’s time for noodles. C’mon.”

It occurred to Bishop, as she and Drummer Boy made the short trek to Diamond City proper, that she didn’t tell Deacon that she was leaving. And then, it occurred to her that he was not her keeper, and she didn’t have to tell him shit. 

They passed into the stadium with ease and descended into the city. 

Bishop nodded at the Power Noodles stand. “Noodles are on me.”

“Wait, no,” he said as they made their way toward the stand. “I’m the one who invited you out. I’ll pay.” 

“It’s okay, really.” She took a seat without giving him a second look. Dogmeat sniffed around under her feet before settling down. “We made some pretty decent caps with that job.”

Drummer Boy slid onto the stool next to her. “Well... if you insist.”

She waved Takahashi over. “I do.” She placed her order and Drummer Boy’s order as well. 

“How do you know if I even like brahmin?” Drummer Boy asked her, watching Takahashi clomp toward the stove. 

“Doesn’t everyone?” she asked, giving him a look. “Or, are you a vegetarian?”

Drummer Boy looked right back at her with a semblance of a scowl. The façade broke too soon; his face split in a grin. “Damn. I couldn’t even keep a straight face.”

She found herself smiling back—and the realization gave her stomach a little twist. But, it was nice, she thought, to speak to someone without having to wonder if the other person was even looking at her. It was nice, and time passed without either of them really noticing. 

They sat there for a long while. Conversation seemed to flow with Drummer Boy than it did with Deacon, and he didn’t set rules on trying to get to know him. It was also obvious that he liked to talk to someone who would let him, and that was fine with her. She preferred listening anyway. 

She learned that Drummer Boy grew up somewhere in New York, the youngest child of four. She learned that his father died suddenly when he was only seven—he got really sick one day, and he just never got better—which forced his oldest brother to help their mother make ends meet. She learned that his favorite food _in the world_ was Fancy Lad cakes. 

And, more than once, Drummer Boy fed bits of meat to Dogmeat. Maybe he didn’t like brahmin after all. 

Around the time Takahashi was powering down for the night, Drummer Boy slid off the stool and stretched, his back probably sore from the lack of support. “Ready to go?”

She held down a yawn. “Yeah.” 

Inside the Dugout Inn, they each paid for their own rooms. Drummer Boy lingered by Bishop’s door as she unlocked it and let Dogmeat inside. 

Bishop looked up at him. “Did you need something, or...?”

“No, I just wanted to say thank you.” He paused, color rising in his cheeks. “For you coming along, I mean.” 

_What?_

“Um, yeah. No problem.” She stepped into her room and started to close the door. “See you in the morning.”

“Sweet dreams!” he said just before it clicked shut. 

Bishop turned toward the bed and saw Dogmeat splayed out across it. He lifted his head to meet her eyes, and his tail thumped against the mattress. With a resigned sigh, she kicked off her boots and climbed into bed next to him. 

She lie there for a while, staring up at the dark ceiling. Her mind kept replaying the events of the day without attempting to analyze them—and she couldn’t figure out _why_. 

Eventually, she told herself to shut up and get some sleep.


	12. Pretty Damn

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Oops! I’m a little late with this update! But better late than never, right? ☺️
> 
> Enjoy! 💖

Bishop sat back on her heels, sighed, and wiped a shop towel over her face, smearing sweat and grease. She threw it over her left shoulder as she glanced up at her power armor. Kneeling at its feet, it was an intimidating sight. She could only imagine how it would look with a fresh coat of paint on it. She had been considering painting it black, but, so far, she hadn’t found any paint at all, let alone paint that could withstand tromping through the wasteland.

She glanced over at Dogmeat lying nearby but far enough away to give her some working space. He lifted his head slightly, his tail thumping lazily against the area rug she had laid out for him. She smiled at him, then turned back to her work. 

Codsworth floated into the garage, the flame of his thruster providing a gentle warmth. “Miss Bishop?”

She glanced at him. “Yeah?”

“Mr. Deacon has expressed his wish to have dinner soon. Are you peckish as well?”

“Now that you mention it, yes.”

“Mr. Deacon requested a mole rat steak with a tato purée. Is this acceptable?”

After months of living off the cuisine unique to this time period, she still couldn’t quite wrap her mind around the phrase _mole rat steak_. “That sounds good.”

“Very well, mum.” He spun around and went the way he came, nearly bumping Deacon. “Oh, my apologies, sir.”

Deacon held up his hands. “No harm, no foul, Cod. After you.”

“Ah, thank you.” Codsworth scooted out of sight. 

From the corner of her eye, Bishop watched Deacon lean casually against the threshold. “Did you need something, or did you just come in here to gawk at me?”

“Mainly to gawk,” he replied. “Having fun?”

“A blast.” She dug into some wiring with a set of pliers. Care and finesse weren’t required here; this span of wires was oxidized to hell. “Are you and Codsworth getting along?”

“Yeah, the old man has some crazy Pre-War stories.” He stepped into the room and hopped onto the workbench. He shimmied around to get more comfortable, but she felt his gaze on her the whole time. “Apparently, the people he worked for were in the military. Well, one of them was. The other was some kind of contractor for them.” He flapped his hand, like the details weren’t important to him. “I wonder if they knew what was going to happen.”

She kept careful composure. “What do you mean?”

“I mean, the bombs, right? The military must’ve known what was coming.”

“Maybe they were retired.” 

“Hmm. I’ll ask him about it later.” 

Bishop smiled to herself as she said, “I never thought you’d be a history buff.”

“Oh, I’m not, really. There’s just nothing else to do around here, and we’re _still_ waiting for that broadcast Danse promised us. It’s almost been a whole week.” 

“And who knows how much time you have left?”

Deacon drew in a hissing breath, but when she glanced over at him, he was smiling. “You ever gonna let up on the jabs at my age?”

“Not until I know how old you actually are.” She took up a screwdriver to shove some wires to the side. “But, I doubt you’ll ever tell me, so you might as well learn to live with it.”

“Huh. There’s no argument against that.”

“Finally.”

He laughed. 

“Now, if you’re so bored that you came in here to just stare at me, you could at least offer to help.” 

There was no accounting for just how quickly he jumped off the bench and kneeled by her side. “What do you need me to do?”

She lifted all but her thumb and forefinger off the handle of the screwdriver. “Hold this.”

“Sure thing.” He took the handle and held it steady. “Can I ask what you’re doing?”

“These wires need to be replaced. That’s all.”

“Is this what you’re always looking around for? Replacement parts for this thing?”

“Well, yeah... but let’s not forget that you’re the one who suggested I join the Railroad specifically _for_ the scavenging opportunities.”

“That’s true,” he said. “Y’know, we haven’t really had the chance to talk since you joined.”

“Talk about what?”

“About how you like it so far.”

“It is extremely shitty. But, I already told you that, didn’t I?”

“You did. But, what about that warm, fuzzy feeling? Had any of that yet?”

She hesitated. She hadn’t really thought of it that way; delivering synths to safety had seemed more like a chore than anything else. It was a good thing they were doing—that she was helping them do—and she knew it. “A little, I guess.”

“You’re not in it to help the synths, though.” 

“Did that sink in when we met or just now?” 

He smirked. “I’m not as dumb as you think, Bish.” 

Bishop’s hands stopped their ministrations, and she looked over at him. “Does it bother you?”

“That you think I’m an idiot? Nah.”

“No, not—” She paused, shaking her head. “Does it bother you that I’m not in it for the fuzzy feeling?”

“Honestly?” He considered for a moment. “I don’t think it does.”

Her eyebrow quirked. “Really?”

“Look. I know everyone has their own motivations. The only thing that really matters to me is that you’re _still_ doing it, even if you don’t want to. It means that you care at least a little, even if you don’t realize it. You know what I mean?”

She looked down at her work. “I think so.”

“You could have easily said no to this whole thing.”

“You would have let me go easily?”

His lips pursed momentarily, and then he smiled. “For sure. I wouldn’t force you to—”

“No, you wouldn’t,” she interjected, shooting him a sharp glance, “but you would have kept stalking me.”

“For the last time, I did _not_ stalk you.”

“Fine. You would’ve had someone else stalk me. It’s the same fucking thing, Deacon.”

“Maybe,” he acquiesced. “But, you’re an agent now, so we’ll never know.”

“Right.” She looked back at the ankle of the armor and resigned with a sigh. This could wait until later. She took the screwdriver from his grasp and tossed it into the open maw of her toolbox, earning a look from Dogmeat at the clatter. “You wanna know why I think you’re an idiot?” 

He turned to face her fully and sat down cross-legged, his chin propped in his hands. A grin played at his mouth but never surfaced. “Oh, absolutely.” 

Words spilled out of her. “Because you act like one at _all_ fucking times. The only time you’ve shown that you possess more than one brain cells is after we fought off those ferals at the police station, and even then, I was wondering where the goddamn wisdom was coming from. Is it always there, bouncing between those two brain cells you have, or do you channel some ancient deity once a month?”

She could only assume he was returning her stare. Then, a grin finally split his face. “Good burn, Bish.” 

Bishop’s head drew back. That wasn’t the reaction she had been expecting. She looked away and got to her feet. “Yeah, well, I’ve always been pretty good at keeping people from getting a big head.” 

“I can tell.” He rose to his full height, right next to her, and looked down at her. “It’s one of the things I like most about you.”

The closeness unsettled her. She took a step back, then another. “You? Liking something about _me_? Now, that’s a lie, if I ever heard one.”

“That’s another thing I like about you, Bish.” His index finger pressed against the bridge of his glasses and pushed them up. “You can’t actually tell if I’m lying.”

“I have a theory that I could if you took off those sunglasses.”

“You think that I”—he planted the tip of his thumb in the center of his chest—“ _me_ —you think I would have a tell?”

“Why else would you wear them all the time?”

“Because they make me look really cool?”

She snorted, snatching the towel from her shoulder. “Uh, yeah, sure.” She tried to walk past him, but he stepped in her way. The subtle action was unexpectedly vexing, but she tried not to let that show as she looked at the lenses of his sunglasses. 

“No, really, I gotta know,” he said, holding up his hands in front of him. “You think I have a tell?”

“I think it’s got to do with your eyes.” She squinted, trying to see past the dark tint. It was no use; he had probably gone to great lengths to procure glasses like these. “Do you squint? Does one of your eyes twitch? Gotta be something.”

Deacon’s arms folded over his stomach. “Huh.”

Her eyebrow arched. “Huh?” 

“How did we get from me holding a screwdriver to you accusing me of hiding behind my really cool sunglasses?”

She blinked a few times. She didn’t know how to answer, so she stepped around him again and called out, “Codsworth?”

The Mr. Handy arrived moments later. “Yes, Miss Bishop?”

“How’s dinner coming along?”

“Swimmingly. It shall be ready soon.”

“Great.” She looked back at Deacon, who was now crouched by Dogmeat, giving the animal a belly rub. “Do you need any help?”

“None at all, Miss Bishop. I am most capable.” 

“Ah, I didn’t doubt you for a second.” She smiled amusedly. “How about some company?”

“How delightful! I would be most glad to have some.” Codsworth gestured with one of his arms toward the front of the shop. 

Bishop glanced back at Deacon once more, shook her head, then left the garage.

* * *

Hours later, her stomach full of food she didn’t care to think too hard about, Bishop lie on her stomach on the roof of the Red Rocket. The light of her Pip-Boy illuminated the faded pages of the Grognak comic she had failed to continue so long ago and already knew the ending to. The Pip-Boy provided another service: drowning out the telltale sounds of a party coming from a lighted section of Sanctuary with tunes continuously pumped out of Diamond City Radio. 

Being anywhere without Dogmeat in her immediate vicinity was a little discomforting, but it was a small price to pay for some time without Deacon _also_ in her immediate vicinity. Besides, her pistol sat within a comfortable reach, close to the Pip-Boy. 

She flipped a page—and paused as a dark shape entered the periphery of her sight. It moved at a leisurely pace along the road to Sanctuary. She crawled toward the edge of the roof to get a better look. The steady gait ruled out a feral, so it had to be Deacon. Was he going to go party in Sanctuary? There was some kind of celebration, so it wouldn’t be the craziest notion for him to want to blow off some steam—

A low roar registered suddenly, and she looked further west when a white light flashed across the woods. 

“What the hell?” she whispered to herself, pushing herself to her feet. 

Reflecting upon it later, she didn’t think that anything could have prepared her for seeing a titanic dirigible sailing through the night sky, spotlights swinging across the ground, with three vertibirds flanking it. 

She stumbled backward with a gasp, the heel of her boot catching on a loose tile. Her behind hit the roof hard, and she rolled onto her elbow with a groan. 

There was a bewildered half-scream from below. 

That was definitely Deacon. She went back to the edge of the roof to see Deacon running full-speed back toward the Red Rocket. She had only seen him move that fast exactly once, and it was when he was trying to lock Danse in a room with an active rocket thruster. 

“Bishop!” he hollered. “Bishop, did you see—?!”

“Stop yelling!” she yelled back at him. 

“Bishop! There you are.” He pointed animatedly at the dirigible. “Do you _see_ that?”

“No, what the fuck are you _talking_ about?” she spat over the edge. “Yes, I fucking see it! What the hell is—?”

“People of the Commonwealth,” a prerecorded message played over a loudspeaker as the dirigible soared overhead, “do not interfere. Our intentions our peaceful. We are the Brotherhood of Steel.”

“Oh, my God,” Bishop murmured, becoming aware of how fast her heart was beating. She pressed her palm against her chest, as if to calm it. 

“You think that might have been the Brotherhood?” Deacon joked. 

“Christ.” She skittered back to her setup, shoved everything—including the still-singing Pip-Boy—into the middle of the blanket, and wrapped it up in a bundle to throw over her shoulder. She made her way down the ladder as Deacon jogged around the side of the building. 

“People of the Commonwealth,” the message repeated, fading as the dirigible got further and further away, “do not interfere...”

“How wild is that?” he asked, pointing again at the dirigible as it coasted toward Boston. 

“Pretty damn,” she agreed. 

They stood there for a while, until the lights couldn’t be seen anymore, and then for a short while longer as The Ink Spots crooned about maybes.


End file.
